In Profundis
by Downriver
Summary: One year after Silence, Clarice Starling is feeling listless, but still driven by duty. Meanwhile, Dr. Lecter finds he thinks of the fledgling agent often, and decides to make contact; it is an encounter which results in an unfathomable covenant, altering their lives for years. Both hope to get some version of what they really want, if they indeed, know what they really want.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N I wanted to say a few things before I begin. A disclaimer, if you will. Please feel free to skip it. **

**I hadn't considered writing this when I first started thinking about it, for a number of reasons. For one, the central plot point is rather nuts, and in order to get Clarice and Hannibal to participate, I had to take some liberties. I don't usually appreciate O.C. behavior, because it tends to render this pointless. We love them for the way they are, so if we change them, what's the point? But I really had to poke and prod them in order to get their cooperation. To an extent, you will have to take a leap with me. Otherwise, I do my best to write them true to their nature. I hope I succeed. **

**The other reason I was hesitant was because there are a few fanfic cliches, such as a 'virginal Clarice' and a good ole fashioned kidnapping. Both I felt were necessary. *Shrug* Sorry. But the fact is, this story started unraveling in my head a while back, and I simply couldn't get it out of my head. So I wrote some of it down. It is by no means finished, and I don't know if I will finish it. To finish it the way I'd want, this would be rather long. It will partly depend on how into I get, and perhaps if others are interested (not to pander). But if you do wish this story to continue, don't hesitate to let me know. **

**Last thing. In case it is not glaringly obvious, this story is inspired in theme and structure by Dante's Inferno and Faust. **

* * *

Circle One: Limbo

The pity you mistake for fear…

Starling is accustomed to being asleep and awake at varying intervals. While it is true that she was able to settle into a kind of routine, she was always ready for that routine to be interrupted. Much of the time, she was up at six in the morning, sometimes earlier if she made breakfast. By seven she was usually at Quantico for fire arms training. She preferred the outdoor range, as did her roommate and friend, Ardelia Mapp.

Sometimes she received a call on her radio while cleaning her weapon—sometimes she did not. Sometimes she was well-briefed and familiar with the investigation—sometimes she was not. Sometimes the conditions were right for an arrest—sometimes they were not. Sometimes the suspects were taken in without incident—sometimes they were not. The work day often ended with paperwork, which always seemed to be when her exhaustion began to seep in. Not the training, not the inept briefing or the dick-measuring, not the negotiations nor the shouting nor the fighting; even the distinct thanklessness of the job did not exhaust her. No, it was always the paperwork; it was the drudgery. An unceremonious end to the unceremonious beginning. Things were not terrible, nor were they exceptional. They just were. She just was.

The plane she was on left on time, around 1:35 in the morning. It was on United, or as Starling called it privately, 'Fucking United'. A flight with one stop from Quito, Ecuador to D.C. takes no less than ten and a half hours. They had been in the air for less than one hour, and Starling, in spite of an overwhelming fatigue, fidgeted in her seat. She attributed it to being without her firearm, which she would not retrieve until back in America. It was her first time leaving the U.S., and the most interesting thing that had happened to her since the events the previous year.

There are a number of visual memories which surface in Starling's mind, memories from that time. They do not surface with the leisure of a cork or some other piece of litter in an ocean; they surface like jumping piranhas, as abrupt as they are vicious. They flicker in a corner of her mind, at all times. Sometimes she finds herself turning to that corner, other times she has the strength to show it her back. But it is warm on her shoulders, and sometimes she feels eyes moving over her. Sometimes they are Jame Gumb's eyes, moving silently in the dark. A jumping, gnashing memory now, a crack of sound, a blinding clap of light, and in that instant moment of sight she can see his face obscured by night-vision goggles , surprise and pain. The incense of gun smoke, the stink of fear and body odor.

Sometimes the eyes are faceless, in the deeps of a dungeon. She did not look at those faces, only heard the shuffle of their hopeless shoes and their distant wails. She could not turn away from that. She could not turn away from the lecherous gaze of Dr. Chilton, or the sound her own shoes made in the acoustics of a corridor erected by iron and stone.

Least of all, she could seldom turn from the eyes of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. His eyes followed her now along the corridors of her own mind; he had escaped from the dungeon, and it seemed he had escaped from that flickering corner of her mind, too. He had free-range now, and his voice whispered to her through the walls, never far, never far. She didn't know how many times she'd wondered where he was. What he was doing now, _right now_… What was he looking at? What did he smell…

He had his view, he'd given her that much. Did that make her glad? She wondered if he wondered that. She was glad in one room and sorry in another. There is room in Starling's mind for disagreement. There are many Clarice Starlings here in this private house; sometimes they agree and other times, they can only agree to disagree and do their best to live in peace. There is room enough for that. Starling can stretch herself, sprawl out in the rambling, cluttered manor of her mind. There is room enough to not know every room. There is room enough to keep some wings locked and untouched, a thin film of dust collected over the draped furniture, ominous shapes in an unused atrium. She does not uncover those shapes, or go into those rooms, or unlock those doors, or even venture down those wings. They are unkempt and dangerous.

At the trembling of turbulence, Starling thought about piranhas. There had been an amusing moment while traveling near the Columbia/Ecuador border with a few members of the Ecuadorian military. They were in a log canoe on the river, looking for a kidnapped US citizen who was mining for gold in the area. How very far from Washington, indeed. Backup was, of course, nonexistent. Starling was used to that. Then she let her hand dip into the water, she couldn't say why. The Ecuadorian Army major said "Don't do that, Piranha." For less than a second, she thought he'd called her a Piranha. She retrieved her hand and looked back at the infested water. She looked, looked deep.

Starling opened her eyes and looked out of the airplane window. It was dark, but they were high above the clouds now, a soft bed of clouds below, and she looked across the rolling planes of the stratosphere. Below the incorporeal landscape was the lowest layer. The troposphere is an unstable layer where air is moving constantly. If airplanes were to fly in this layer it would be a much bumpier ride. Starling gazed out the window, looking deep.

It is midday when she gets home. Ardelia is not there, and Starling finds she is glad to be alone, for the time being. She considers showering, briefly. She intends to shower, but instead finds herself sprawled across her bedspread. Many hours later, she awakens to sounds and smells in the kitchen.

Ardelia looked over her shoulder when Starling came in. Giving her a quick once over, she nodded her chin to the chair nearest the door.

"Want some tea, Starling? I'm making shrimp," she said, watching Starling sit. Ardelia smiled. "But you knew that already."

"I think they can smell it back on the Amazon," said Starling.

"And wishing they were here."

"Oh, that's for certain."

Ardelia was working with her back to Starling for a moment. When she turned to pass her a cup of tea, she locked her gaze. Starling took the cup and braved Ardelia's examination.

"Yeah? And?" she said, and Ardelia snorted with a smile.

"Well, what are you gonna do?"

"Eat, sleep and work."

"You better be doing more than that."

"Would that I could." Starling took a sip of the tea and sighed long and deep.

"You make the time if it's a priority," Ardelia said, her back facing Starling, again. "We both know that. It's like people who are always late. They know how to be on time, they just don't care enough to do it. _You _don't care enough to do it."

"Well, I know we're not talking about punctuality. So what are we talking about?"

"Depends," Ardelia shrugged. The okra was beginning to brown and she added seeds and juice to the skillet. "What is it you want that you're not getting? It's different for everybody." She decided to add more salt, and nodded in approval. "Some people need to socialize, some people need to knit. Some people need to fuck and others need to taste wine. What is it you want? What are you not making time for?"

"What do you like?"

"Cooking and fucking are pretty high up on the list."

"Ever do both?"

"Sure."

"Maybe I can multitask too."

"But what are you multitasking?" Ardelia grinned over the browned okra.

"How long have you got?"

Ardelia was finishing, and was quiet while she made plates. When they were both sitting, and had taken a bite or two, Ardelia adjusted her position and pointed her fork towards Starling. "You know what I think?"

"Sometimes."

Ardelia rewarded her friend with a wry grin. "_I _think you need to get laid."

"And here I thought you'd tell me to take up stamp collecting."

"Well, you_ did_ say you could multitask."

They laughed with their mouths full.

Up at six the next morning, and Starling took a foot in her hand while braced against the banister. She pulled it back until her heel touched her thigh, stretching first one, then the other leg.

After her run, she showered at the gym, and changed before heading to the firing range. Ardelia was already there. Today, she received a call on her radio. It was a Friday, and Starling had discovered that thieves had a strange habit of robbing banks on Friday afternoons. It was rather inconvenient for anyone who wanted to have a good time on a Friday night. Sometimes, it was alright. But other times, it was hard to drink and mingle with the sight of a bloodied mouth gaping open over the hood of a car fresh on the mind. Sometimes she thought, 'Well, why not? Death happens every day whether I'm there for it or not. The world keeps spinning, time and space are indifferent. Wear the sad little party dress and get a fucking drink. Let a man look at you. Touch his arm. Let him probe and paw.' But any time she tried, bulging, pleading eyes jumped forth, a memory piranha at the worst of times.

How did Ardelia do it? Ardelia was a different person, she reminded herself. Maybe she did it to forget the pleading eyes. Maybe Ardelia was like the forces of nature, and was indifferent to death. Maybe that's how you were supposed to be. Did compassion even help in saving lives? How many lives were lost to save lives?

Sometimes they'd reach. Reach with the last bit of life, look at her with the last bit of animal surveillance. Sometimes, they mistook pity for fear.

The following Saturday, Starling still woke up at six. She went for a run. She went to the firing range and cleaned her gun. She showered and went to the store. No one called. Ardelia came in wearing the clothes she'd worn the night before and went to sleep in them. Starling envied her, and did the laundry. When Ardelia woke up, it was Starling's turn to offer narcotics and food. They talked about the reliability of DNA testing as evidence in criminal trials.

The next day came and went, and was discarded in the night by Starling's subconscious, labeled as rubbish. The following week came. Up at six, running, showering, fire range, cleaning the gun. A radio call? Yes? No? Surveillance, dick-measuring, stuffy vans or negotiations? Studying of a map, in and out of cars, make an arrest with Brigham. No problems, no pleading eyes, thank you, thank you. Who did she thank? She supposed God.

Starling's life is a castle in perpetual dusk. It is situated in a lonely, grim wood. Around the castle is a mote, and within, a brightly lit meadow. Starling inside is neither sad nor joyful. She only is.

* * *

Beyond Starling's castle walls, not far beyond the mote, something watches and waits. It's eyes reflect light in pinpoints of red, and it likes to eat lunch outside, when the weather permits. It's own castle is not so very far, and it moves within the walls with the silence of a specter. Whether it thinks is not in question, but whether it feels. At dusk, it sits near the terrace doors, which it has opened to let in the warm, April air. Summer will be here soon, and it lifts a glass of wine to its nose and _sniiiiifs_.

For a moment, it think it can smell Starling, but no—it is not a smell, but an effect of olfactory memory and incidental conditioning. For the last two months, it has sat outside at dusk sniffing wine, and thinking of Starling's self-imposed limbo. The creature has developed a number of associations with Starling, the least of which is not the smell of almonds and fresh laundry, nor the color of blue and it's reflection of the light in a facet of glittering ambition.

The creature inhabits the body of a man, and the man drapes one leg over the other and looks out at the fiery sky. He thinks of her hair in the sun. She was astute, he knew. But that was irrelevant. She was still merely a cub, rolling about with other cubs. She was growing fast, it was true. He had gotten easily lost in entertaining himself since his return to the new world, lost focus on what he wanted. The specifics of what he wants are hard to tell. The creature is not easily read. But, he reflects, she _was_ growing fast. Perhaps it was better not to idle.

In the first months of escape, Dr. Lecter took the time to enjoy things only when it was both convenient and shrewd. A nice view here, a good meal there. He could not help but notice that Clarice Starling frequented his mind. It did not alarm him, nor did it intrigue him, in the beginning. She was fresh on his mind, the scent of her still lingering where he'd touched her. Her rich textures still prompting him to reach out and touch the smooth, cool marble of a passing column in the street, or linger his mouth along the skin of a grape. Once, after having brought home fresh raspberries for pork medallions, he found himself holding one and turning it over in his hands. He brought it to his face and touched it with the pointed tip of his tongue, running it slowly along the bumpy contours of its bright, blushing skin. He wondered how sensitive Clarice Starling was. Would she admit only a taste or perhaps a nibble? Could she tolerate a bite? He popped it into his mouth whole, and ate it with his eyes closed.

It was not until he had fed himself to satisfaction on the sights of his first destination that Dr. Lecter began to realize that he wanted to see her. To touch her would be ambitious, and nearly as bullheaded as the agent herself. No longer a trainee, he reflected. Soon, not even a cub. How much longer did he have before she was no longer so fetching in her cocksure tenacity? How much longer would her bites and scratches be darling? How much longer could he withstand those charming protests should he hazard a little fondle?

He knew that when she'd grown, she would be all the more amusing. Everlastingly amusing, but at a certain sacrifice. Dr. Lecter has not known intimidation in many, many years. He could predict Starling would grow to be a rather large cat. He could no longer let the cub roll about at his feet, or rub her belly without consternation. If she nipped him in a few years, it could prove to be fatal.

It is important to acculturate a predator to one's presence early on. One's survival could depend on it—if one is inclined to associate with dangerous animals.

On the 20th of April, a trip to Arlington reveals to Dr. Lecter that Starling is out and her roommate is in. It is only a mild inconvenience, and Dr. Lecter goes to a nearby restaurant for a sandwich. Unless her routine was interrupted, she was either amidst an investigation or stuck in a hearing. Once the sun had gone down, he began to suspect that it was a hearing. Alternatively, she was in the middle of an investigation that had gone awry. Nothing much he could do, there.

He was sitting in his car down the street, when the roommate stirred in the house. A light came on, then another. Shortly after, she was leaving in her car.

Dr. Lecter pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing a fraction. Follow, yes or no? He started the car. They were halfway to their destination before Dr. Lecter knew they were headed to the airport. He did not follow her the rest of the way.

There were ways to surveillance her, which would reveal to Dr. Lecter every move she made. However, he considered this a breech in privacy. It was one thing to observe her as she shuffled along the fringes of her life, as a neighbor or colleague might. Beyond that was within the realm of stalking, and was evidence of the petty, derogatory existence of a dawdling nescient. He would not do that. However, Dr. Lecter considered going into her now empty home. If he were to do so, it would not be courteous to come empty-handed.

When he arrived home, he goes about undisturbed by the evening, but keeps watch over the news, on mute. He could not abide its blathering in this place of solitude. He does not have to wait long.

While Dr. Lecter had reclined in his chair one evening, perhaps composing a piece to later test his new piano, Starling had been arriving in Waco, Texas with a group of other agents in indignant cooperation with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. By the time they arrived at the ranch in Mount Caramel Center, the ATF had already attempted a raid, resulting in the death of four government agents and six civilians.

The leader of the sect, which Starling had long since learned was named David Koresh, had his followers holed up inside, allegedly staying of their own free will. The group of civilians inside included children, and Starling scoffed at the idea that any child had free will. An echo down the halls of her mind wondered, _Do any of us?_ She shook off the thought, and stayed focused during the debriefing.

After the ATF had withdrawn, they had at least established communication with Koresh and the others inside. They were met with Commander Rogers, who headed the FBI Hostage Rescue Team. In taking some reading in his eyes while he spoke, Starling saw both disgruntlement and defensiveness. He had previously been criticized for his actions at Ruby Ridge, and she could see it all, see the experience stuck in his eyes, watery and a little irritated without any tears. As at Ruby Ridge, Rogers overrode the Site Commander at Waco and had mobilized both the Blue and Gold HRT tactical teams to the same site. It ultimately created pressure to resolve the situation tactically due to lack of HRT reserves.

They had cut off Davidian communication from the outside world. There were 25 agents negotiating over the phone with those inside, and Starling was one of them. There were two battles raging on, and she did her best to balance between the two. Attempting to get Koresh to free the hostages, particularly the children, and attempting to do so while the tactical commanders undercut them. There quickly was a divide between agents: those who advocated the use of negotiation, and those who preferred force. There was one moment when Starling's head came up when Rogers was arguing with Brigham.

"There are more than thirty children inside, and it needs to be-"

"This has been going on for 20 days-"

"-it _needs_ to be the top priority to get them out."

"Koresh has already released a statement publicly that everyone inside is there of their own free will. When-"

"That's irrelevant-"

"It doesn't matter if it's true, Agent. Listen to me. _Listen_," Rogers was saying, using his incidental height over the seated Brigham, who wore both an earpiece and a firearm at his hip. "It doesn't matter if it's true, because he released a video, and it _looks_ like we're fucking with a bunch of praying religious people."

"All the more reason to keep talking to them."

"You keep trying to handle this like it's a hostage crisis, but-"

"This is a hostage crisis, there are children in there, some of which are likely being physically and sexually abused."

"-Meanwhile, Koresh is spouting off Biblical garbage and claiming he needs more time to write religious documents. He's just stalling. If they're stalling and we're stalling, this is going to go on and on and on."

"The last time someone chose to go in with force, ten people were killed. We were brought in because of that failure."

Starling cleared her throat to prepare them for her interruption. They stopped and looked at her, one with testy civility and the other with exhausted hostility. They waited, and she knew she only had one moment.

"If we want to make progress, and we want the kids out of there, let's offer him something he wants in exchange for the kids. If we get at least some of them out, assuming Brigham's right about the abuse, we can get them on record. If it comes to force, we'll have more than pity for the Davidians."

Rogers considered it, to Starling's relief. Brigham gave her a quick smile. Rogers looked at her again.

"How do you propose we get him to release them, then? Isn't that what you've been trying to do for the last week?" he said.

"Yes, but it's been since we cut off their communication. That's what he wants the most. He wants a platform. Let's give him one. We offer him the chance to release one message and broadcast it on national radio. One message in exchange for the kids. Have we got child care professionals?"

"No," Rogers shook his head. "We've got agents and the Texas rangers. But they know how to interview children."

"Alright, then I say we give it a shot," offered Brigham," If we get them out here, we should have professionals called out, though. If there's been abuse, they'll need more than rangers."

Rogers considered. "Let me make some calls, and I need to talk to Jeff. I'll be back," he said, and with that he was gone. Brigham gave Starling a thumbs up, and she gave him a half-hearted smile. They were exhausted in every way imaginable. And it was only the beginning.

It worked. With the release of nineteen of the children, everybody seemed to feel as though they'd made a breakthrough. No one mentioned Starling's name, but she didn't notice. In the hours afterwards, it was confirmed that the children had been abused long before the standoff. It turned out to be the key justification of the FBI, the President and the Attorney General to launch an attack.

It had started with tear gas. As the siege wore on, more aggressive techniques were used, including sleep deprivation. They played all-night broadcasts of recordings of jet planes, pop music, chanting, and the screams of rabbits being slaughtered. Starling slept during that time, but it was a raging, sweaty sleep from which she woke again and again, thinking she heard roaring and screaming.

One morning, Starling had been standing with Brigham and two others. She was shaking her head.

"This is absurd. They're using techniques to drive someone crazy, someone who they view as unstable to begin with. And they want to drive that person crazy. I wonder how mad they'll all be when he does something irrational."

Brigham gave her a tired, sad smile.

It was not the only problem. It was true that the people inside were not traditional hostages. And the children that remained inside did not want to leave. It threw everything off, and they were all unprepared to work around religious zeal. Their training and techniques were alienated by religious imagery. By the end of the month, Starling had never wanted to be home so badly.

Mapp had come to see her, on the twentieth. It was the day after the last day of the siege. Once there was tank activity, it was a matter of time before there was noise and fire. Starling summoned everything she had to—to—to what? She wondered.

The entire building was gassed. The FBI HRT fired plastic, non-incendiary tear gas rounds through the windows and the Branch Davidians fired shots at CEV1. CEV2, with battering ram, ripped a hole into the second floor of the compound. Davidians unfurled a banner that read, 'We want our phone fixed.'

Someone waved a white flag on the southeast side of the compound amidst the increasing wreckage and rage. He was told over a loud speaker that if he was surrendering, he should come out. He did not. Meanwhile, through the audio communication with the people inside, someone was saying, "I want a fire," and then, "Keep that fire going." They were setting the building on fire from the inside. The first evidence was a wisp of smoke on the second floor, then a small flicker. One of the walls began to collapse, and shortly after a woman exited, holding something. Starling and five others approached her, with Starling taking point. She did not question that it was because she was the only female in that moment. She put the woman on the ground quick and clean, frisked her, retrieved the computer disk inside her jacket and handed it off to someone.

The woman looked at her from behind her shoulder, her eyes hot and angry. Nothing had prepared Starling for being resented for saving someone. Nothing prepared her for being unsure of whether or not she had saved someone. Behind them, the flames spread quickly with high winds, and it roared as loudly as it burned at her back. Another Piranha in the deep, another flicker in the corner. The astringent tears of a lamb, screaming in her arms. Could you save someone whom does not wish to be saved?

Afterwards , in the hotel room, Starling cried while she was in the shower. She didn't want Ardelia to see. They couldn't get seats next to each other on the plane ride back. When they got home, they sat in the kitchen, and Ardelia made tea. Ardelia found many new splinters in Starling's expression. She was hurting; she knew her brave face.

The siege had lasted 52 days, and Starling had been there for half of it. The bad half. Ardelia wondered if at any point, Starling would get the good half. She also wondered if karma was such a thing, and what Starling could have done to earn the specific torment she seemed to endure. It was not the deepest perils of hell, to be sure. It was more like the outskirts-the shallow end of misery.

"Would you consider some time off to recuperate? Beyond this weekend, I mean."

Blessedly, she and Brigham had the next two days to rest, provided there wasn't a national crisis.

"I don't know that sitting quietly with it will do much good."

"And laying over it with more noise would be better?"

"I don't know," Starling shook her head and looked away. She was tugging on the tea bag's string, the water becoming murkier as she did so.

It was almost eleven by the time she was crawling into bed. She found a pretty bottle of lotion there, and took some of it into her hands, spread it up her arms and sniffed the newly perfumed air. It was divine, and she decided to ask Ardelia where she'd gotten it. Not to mention why she'd left it in her room.

* * *

The next day, Starling headed to the grocery store. It was early enough that it was still dark out. She had woken in the night four different times. On the fourth, she could not return to sleep. She went for a run in the nearby park, showered, dressed and then paced the kitchen. She could not stop moving. Ten minutes later, she was parking her car in the grocery store parking lot.

By the time she was finished, there was a dull light at the horizon, a sooty blue in the east. She shifted the bags into one hand when she shuffled between the cars, dipped the other in her purse to retrieve her key, and frowned. The faintest sting on her arm caused her to glance over, expecting to see an insect, or perhaps something stuck between her sleeve and arm. Before she could register anything, an arm came around her waist, the other dropping a syringe into a pocket and came quickly around her mouth as she screamed into the palm of a hand

. She dropped her bags and purse and launched backwards, using the side of her own car to propel their bodies. They knocked into the car behind, which rocked and complained, noisily. The sound of feet scuffling as she reached behind her, caught a bit of hair and tore. The assailant did not react.

She bit at the hand which held her mouth, attempted to kick the groin with the heel of her feet. She kicked and kicked, one of her feet knocking into the side mirror of her car, and wrenched it into the window. She dented the driver's side door. As she began to lose strength, she could feel the assailant's cheek pressed against hers, almost affectionately.

This came as no surprise to her. Physical fights had strange, intimate moments. Hot breath on the back of the neck. Lips, warm and wet against a palm. Hands grappling with limbs. Eyes locked, hearts pounding. The cheek was warm and she smelled fresh clothes and an oud bouquet, sweet and woodsy. She had her fingernails embedded into the back of his neck, and she could feel it slick with blood. She could smell it, too. Her grip was relaxing though, and panic began to settle in her stomach, a heavy sense of dread. Her feet were giving out, and she heard a voice, calm and rich.

"Shhh," he said. "No pain."


	2. Chapter 2

The house on the lake is a sturdy place, where brick joins steel and wood, braced and waiting. It is sturdy and it is hollow, but not so spacious that it alienates. It keeps out the rain and cold, it stands against the wind—but it's walls and mirrors are sufficiently absorbent of any talk and mood. It remains sedate amidst the babbling, sighing and raging of the life it keeps.

In the safe, fleecy embrace of unconsciousness, Starling was free from fear, anger and pity. She lay in a bedroom on the second floor of the house. She lies on her back, spread out against the tidy coverlet.

Dr. Lecter sat in a chair in the corner of the room, watching her breathing. When it changed slightly, he came swiftly to her side to check her pulse, and then her blood pressure. She would be fine, but she was dreaming. Her eyes danced beneath her eyelids, and he looked at her with his head to the side.

It was late morning when she woke, and the first thing she did was attempt to scratch an itch on her side. The simple, natural gesture was met with resistance at her wrist and, half-asleep, Starling complained quietly. She moved to roll on her side and could not. She awoke completely and suddenly.

Her eyes opened wide, her heart speeding up a little too fast. Within the first blink of her eyes, she saw the room-comfortable, clean and liberal in cherry wood and mahogany. Within the second blink, she saw a burning, collapsing compound, smoke and fire. Within the third blink, a myriad of pleading eyes. Another, the room again. Another, resentful tears and the smell of gun smoke. One more, and the presence of another. She looked at the doorway, where he was standing.

For a moment, she blinked several more times, thinking she was seeing a merging of her most stinging memories and reality. Perhaps in her sleepy stupor, the two had fused for just a moment. He stood still and rigid. No, not rigid…only straight as an arrow. His posture was not hostile. She knew what that looked like. His arms were at his sides, his shoulders back. His calm infused the room like incense.

"Good morning," he said. His voice gave her a jolt. Then she was spinning.

Starling swallowed. "Good morning, Dr. Lecter." Her heart was hammering and her palms and feet were instantly cold and sweaty. She didn't know what her voice had sounded like, she hadn't heard it; it had been a sound too distant to hear over the internal roar, too insignificant amidst the terrific sense of falling.

He made no move to enter the room, but stood still and sturdy as the mahogany furniture. He seemed to give her a moment to compose herself. She was quite still, her face rather placid compared to the internal tempest by which she was suddenly thrashed; but her eyes were wide and dilated, her mouth shut into a thin line. He could see the perspiration above her lip from where he stood.

Starling moved her arm a micron. Her arms were away from her body and bent at the elbows. Her palms faced up, in an unintentional display of surrender. She risked a glance at her left arm. It was tied to the bed post with a silk scarf, and she looked slowly back at Dr. Lecter.

"Alright," Starling began, unsure if she had something to say beyond it.

"Alright," Dr. Lecter said in a less questioning tone, as though they had wrapped up a long and meaningful discussion. "How are you feeling? You slept all morning."

Starling didn't know how she was. Her senses were returning. Beneath the fear she found anger, perhaps even a sense of betrayal. Not all of her senses had returned, and she reacted to the anger instantly as a child might, her mind and voice finding a way to feed it.

"I'm fine, if you like helotry." She swallowed again, and licked her lips. He still had not moved, and she took a moment to further survey the room.

_He'd said he wouldn't call on me,_ she thought. She heard those words in his voice when she'd first read his letter after his escape. She always heard them in his voice…_God,_ that voice. It had been a source of comfort, those words. A sense of understanding, a sense of closure._ …I won't call on you, Clarice…_She heard her name in his voice, resonant in the acoustics of her mind, _Clarice, Clarice._

"You know, you do catch me off-guard from time-to-time," he was saying. "One moment a reference is lost on you, and the next you remind me of your aptitude with a quick prose. It's effortless, which is promising. I think, sometimes, that you are a poet, at heart. An uneducated, ornery poet."

"It's not fair to call me ornery, in your position," she said. Her throat was dry and she swallowed again. Absurdly, she desperately wanted to brush her teeth. With the thought, came another simultaneously, _keep him talking_.

"Your ability to blame circumstance for your temperament has not waned. _Not_ promising. Are you thirsty?"

"Yes."

"I'll be back." She watched him turn and disappear. Even though he had left the room, the movement had startled her. He belonged in the oubliettes of her mind, not here, out in the world. Not free to roam, to move, to see and touch. It was so very wrong. Starling struggled with her bondage. They were only silk scarves, and should easily unravel. She tried to do it without causing the headboard to tap the wall. All the while, she was thinking.

Bathroom to the right, window to the left across from the door. He'd gone left, footfalls down a hallway and stairs. Noise from a floor below. Stairs often ended near or even in front of a front door. Second story window, was there a balcony? She heard the sounds of a body of water, a lapping shore. She wondered if her boot knife was still there.

One of her wrists was free when he returned. He stood again in the doorway with a glass of water in one hand and her gun in the other.

"Alright," she said again, letting her free arm drop to her side.

Dr. Lecter smiled at her. "Alright," he agreed, coming forward. He was not pointing the weapon at her, only holding it, as a warning.

He set the glass of water on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. The gun disappeared behind his back, too far to reach. With both hands free he folded them in his lap and looked down at her.

"For the time being, I'm going to have to keep you restrained. You understand."

_A man with a gun and a man's strength, a woman with one arm free_. She opened her mouth for a moment, but chose instead to nod. He gave her a single nod in return, before regarding her free arm, which was on the opposite side of the bed.

"I'm going to go to the other side, now," he said, his voice taking on a very soothing tone. On some level, it irritated her, as though he were speaking to an unpredictable stray.

'Come here, girl. Come here…'

She watched him stand and walk around to the other side. When he sat back down on the bed, she was unsure of what to do with her free arm. She balled her hand into a fist and tucked it in tight to her side.

"I'm going to touch you, now," he said, in the same tone. She waited a beat, and looked up. He was looking at her, as though waiting for permission, with his eyebrows raised.

"Fine."

She looked away, unsure of how she felt about letting him tie her arm. Was there any purpose in fighting for fighting's sake? Was the theater of resistance favorable from any angle? Was she _less-than_ for opting out of it, or was she simply pragmatic? Either way, she could not look at him, as he secured her wrist to the head post. Instead, she looked at the open door and chewed her lip.

"Clarice, I don't want to use something more uncomfortable than this, but if you continue to wriggle out of these, I may be forced to."

He was finished now, and was retrieving the glass of water on the night stand. He sat back down and looked at her.

He gave an amiable nod and moved the glass close, and she lifted her head to meet it. He held it there for her and watched her sip, and found the practice to be appealing. He regretted to take it away.

"Am I entitled to a question?" she wondered.

"Certainly." He had folded his hands in his lap again, and seemed pleased.

"What is it I can do for you?"

Both the question and the tone in which she asked it made Dr. Lecter smile widely, and he laughed. Under different circumstances, Starling may have found it appealing.

"I imagine that's the same dogged tone you use when you're 'handling' people. Am I right?"

"More or less."

"And are you trying to handle _me_?"

"I'm trying to figure out what I'm doing here. Evidence points to some unsettling conclusions."

"But life is more than just evidence, isn't it? Experience has taught you that."

"It has."

"And what does experience tell you? Not evidence, but experience?"

"It tells me I'm not dead, yet."

"That," he said, a finger abruptly pointing up," is the most basic report of the senses. It is important and necessary, but you can do better. "

Starling sighed and looked away briefly, before answering. "It tells me you're prepared to kill me, but that it's not your preference."

"My preference? _My_. It is ambitious of you to presume to understand my preferences."

"Am I wrong, then?"

Dr. Lecter seemed all the more pleased when he said, "Not entirely."

Neither spoke for a few moments. Starling did what she could to sound perfunctory. "So, then…what can I do for you?"

"Are you hungry, Clarice? I've made you some breakfast."

Starling was not expecting this, and her eyes narrowed. He watched her head turn a fraction. "Not particularly," she said, at length. They both looked down at the sound of her stomach growling.

Dr. Lecter's eyes rose before his head did, and he smiled. "Ah, the betrayals of our anatomy," he said, with a friendly wink. "I'm going to bring you something to eat. I won't be gone long, and I'll have your gun with me. Before you wonder, I've disconnected the landlines. You will not find my car keys, I can promise you. We are remote. Clarice?"

"Yes?"

"Stay."

Starling felt the first sober rush of anger, and it nearly equaled her fear. She let some of it show, wanting him to know her distaste. She understood, analytically, that he had chosen a simple command to make her powerlessness more apparent to them, and would expect anger. Possibly, he aimed for angering her. The purpose could be anything from a grander design to simply poking her to see what she'd do. But he'd done that, before. Perhaps, he simply enjoyed watching her manage.

He was still looking at her, admiring the minute hostility play on her expression.

"What do we say?" he asked.

_Okay. Well, goddamn you, Lecter. You fucking creep._

"I'll stay," she said, her voice sounding pretty even.

"I'll be back."

Starling realized a few moments after he'd gone that her heart was still hammering and she was sweating from head to feet. She moved a little, finding the back of her blouse was damp. Now, she needed to brush her teeth _and_ shower.

Many thoughts, words and images darted about, a disorganized swarm, but the thought which came most constantly, in many different forms beyond the words themselves, was this:

_What does he want?_

The words struck her as foreign and offensive. She had never been the victim. She was the one who, hopefully, showed up in the nick of time. She was the one to break down the goddamn door. She was_ not_ the one plagued by the question, 'What does he want'.

Starling wondered if she'd cry. As she lay waiting and helpless, she found she did not. She wanted to attribute it to her strength, but couldn't. It was true she had reason to think he may not want to harm her, but every victim, every single one, hopes that maybe they'll 'get out of this'. And sometimes they do. Hope is a natural defense mechanism. She resolved to keep close watch on any and all of her defense mechanisms. She had to pay attention to everything. He would be. When he came back, he was carrying a tray.

"Dr. Lecter?"

He did not answer before setting the tray down. There was an omelet, fresh vegetables and a small bowl of seasonal fruit.

"Have you got a spare toothbrush?"

His smile was pleasant. "I do. Do you need to do that before eating?"

"I'd prefer that."

"I understand. This will take some finesse, if you'll cooperate," he said, heading to the bathroom. He came back with a glass filled with water from the sink and a toothbrush with toothpaste on it. A hand towel was draped over his forearm.

"Are you going to brush my teeth for me?" she asked. Her expression must have amused him. He sat on the edge of the bed again.

"Of course. You'll need to sit up a little."

It took only a few minutes, but went down in Starling's mind as one of the most bizarre experiences of her life. She fidgeted her legs and didn't know where to look. When she needed to spit, he offered the old water cup. He cleaned off her lips with the towel, and offered the other glass for her to rinse. A final spit, and he cleaned her lips again. A minute later, he returned from the bathroom.

"We'll start with the fruit, it will help cleanse your palette. I doubt toothpaste and omelet is a spectacular combination."

"Neither is morning breath and omelet."

"Fair enough."

He sat down next to her and offered her a bite from a fork. She glanced at it, identified it as papaya, and opened her mouth. While she was chewing, he skewered a slice of orange.

Starling wondered if there was an order of words she could use that would make him tell her what he wanted. Did this not constitute as 'calling on her'? She opened her mouth again when he offered her another bite. He did not hide the pleasure he seemed to take in feeding her.

And there _was_ pleasure in feeding her. It was not something he assumed or anticipated, nor was it something he curbed. He did examine it, for the amusement it brought him.

_To feed Starling…_he considered the concept, as he placed a strawberry onto her waiting mouth. _To feed Starling_…was to provide nourishment. It seemed to be congruent, he decided. He enjoyed providing her with nourishment from multiple facets. But in what capacity? He did not have a familial reaction to her. A pet, perhaps? A beloved pet? A pet that could reason and plan? A pet that would eventually grow big…a pet which was already quick. The next time she opened her mouth, he looked at her teeth. They were small and straight, pleasing to the eye. She had healthy gums, he'd noticed when brushing her teeth for her. That had been interesting. He took unnecessarily long bringing another slice of orange to her mouth. She'd already opened it and was waiting. He paused only a moment, to get a good look at her tongue.

Perhaps not a pet, then. He did not consider her as a lover. He had not sensed real attraction from her. Intrigue, certainly. On a purely animal level, her body responded to his body, appropriately. When he moved, she moved. When he gave her a lingering look, her pupils dilated and her skin had even flushed a number of times. She often placed her hands in front of her lap, covering the genitals. It was a telltale sign that she unconsciously acknowledged being a female in the presence of a male, and was naturally protective of her orifices. She occasionally glanced at his mouth and hands. All base animal reactions, which did not speak for her higher brain. They could not be helped.

Dr. Lecter took great delight in programming the human mind. It was not that he was unwilling to tweak her to his specifications, but becoming his lover was not something he considered an option. If she ever could be, it would have to be at her instigation. Therein lied hypothetical scenarios, and Dr. Lecter turned his attention from it in disinterest. No point in dwelling on that which was likely impossible.

He was feeding her the omelet now, and she was enjoying it. She made little attempt in hiding it. She didn't see any point in a trivial, childish dig. Of course the food was good, and so of course, she enjoyed it. She did _not_ enjoy being fed. She felt terribly awkward. Dr. Lecter seemed absorbed in his task and his private thoughts.

She didn't think he wanted sex. Had that been the goal, he could have fucked her already, same as killing and eating her. Instead, she was lying on a bed, getting fed breakfast.

_What the fuck does he want?_

Breakfast was washed down with a cup of mint tea. By the time he had returned from the kitchen, now carrying a bag, she felt a headache coming on.

"Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes, Clarice?"

He had set the bag down at the foot of the bed between her sprawled ankles and was removing some of her clothes, laying them out neatly on the bedspread.

"Could I have some coffee?"

"Experiencing withdrawals, already?"

"Yes."

"In a bit," he said. She watched him hanging her clothes in the closet.

A few minutes later:

"Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes, Clarice?"

"How long is my stay going to be?"

"I don't know, Clarice. It will be up to you, mostly."

"I see. I suppose I couldn't request being escorted home today, then."

"I'd prefer you stay."

"I see. May I venture to say I don't?"

He looked at her. "Of course you may. I invite you to be honest and frank. I've always admired that about you."

Starling found herself sighing. "Not a whole lot of company you'll find, in that corner."

Dr. Lecter gave her a look. "Now, now. You've chosen with whom you do business. You can't go complaining about the boorish company you yourself chose to keep, Clarice." He looked at her with a raised eyebrow, before turning again. He was folding her underwear into a drawer. What a strange image. What an alarming image. What an infuriating image.

"Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes, Clarice?"

"You said you admire my frankness. May I be frank?"

"Please," he gestured, with an inviting hand. He had straightened up and returned to the foot of the bed.

"What the fuck am I doing here?"

"Ah," he wagged his finger. "There's a difference between being frank and being rude."

"I'm _frankly_ inclined to be vulgar."

"There is a difference between vulgarity and rudeness. There is a time and place for certain vulgarities, but never for rudeness. You're _frankly_ inclined to _anger_. And justified. But that does not excuse rudeness."

_Fight him on it? Pick your battles. Stay on point. Appeal to his sensibility. _

"I apologize," she conceded. "What am I doing here?"

"You're here to keep me company. I enjoy spending time with you. I think, given permission, you would enjoy spending time with me."

"Permission?"

"Yes, from your conscience, your compatriots, and your dead father imago. None of which will give you permission. But there is a way around that."

"…And that is?"

"To have no choice. When choice is taken from you, so is responsibility. Permission is rendered irrelevant."

"So," Starling ventured, licking her lips," I'm here because you want…"

"Yes," he encouraged.

"A conversationalist?"

"Let's bring it down into friendlier terms."

"What, a friend?" she let a hiccup of laughter escape.

"Is that so preposterous?"

"Yes. You know it is, don't do that."

"Don't do what?" he challenged, his demeanor amused, again.

"Do not act like we are not…adversaries."

"Adversaries. Were you going to say enemies? You couldn't quite bring yourself to say that though, could you?"

"No…no, we're not enemies. But we're not friends, either."

"We had friendly moments, I think," said Dr. Lecter, softly. He was finished putting away her things, and put the empty bag in the closet. When he returned, Starling regarded him. Seeing she had something to say, he waited, one hand casually draped on top of the foot board.

"We had moments in which you chose not to mock me. I don't confuse that with friendly. And neither do you."

Dr. Lecter considered her, looking pleased again. Pleased and disappointed, and Starling could not begin to understand how and why he seemed to experience both at once.

Lecter decided to move on from attitude, mood and behavior, and assess her anger.

"May I ask you some questions, Clarice? Could you handle that?" He kept his voice non-confrontational, but the words he chose were sure to whet her appetite for enmity.

"Fine."

"You overhear a friend bad-mouthing you. How angry would you feel?"

'Depends on the friend. I don't have many. If it was my-" she hesitated a moment, suddenly feeling that it was wrong to say Ardelia's name in Dr. Lecter's presence. "-if it were my roommate, I'd be hurt."

"What if it was a co-worker? What if a group of your so-called backup were standing around, calling you the bride of Dracula? I'll bet it's happened more than once."

He wasn't altogether wrong. She'd never heard it in those terms, but it was beside the point. The sentiment was there.

"Somewhat angry. Angry that people can be so easily persuaded to alienate another. Even though it's nothing more than a cheap way of aligning themselves with the pack."

"Easier to estrange the Other than to be special."

"Yes."

"On your way home from work you stop at the bank to deposit a check. As you're standing in line patiently waiting your turn, you notice a child with a chocolate bar running around screaming. His mother seems to have no problem with it; she's actually beaming with pride. Next thing you know, the child decides to run over to you and give you a big hug, smearing little chocolate hand prints all over your pants. How angry does that make you feel?"

"Fairly angry. Why are you giving me this rudimentary exam?"

Dr. Lecter was reminded of the questionnaire that had brought her to him, and smiled. "You never answered my question."

"Yes, I did. I said it would make me fairly angry."

"No, no, no. The _last_ question, the one before I took my leave. How do you manage your anger? I would simply ask you, but you dance around it like a little _sujet_. If you were able to directly answer a question about yourself, I'd implement that technique. And we're not bargaining anymore."

"Sujet?"

"Nevermind. Shall we move on to the following question?"

"I'll answer the real question. I freeze it. I freeze it like nitrogen, so that I can work."

"That's an undeveloped mechanism. When does it unfreeze? Before you know it, you'll have a billowing river of smoke spilling from your head. "

Dr. Lecter filed this imagery away for later use, when he had time to sketch.

"I don't know. Maybe when I run."

"Maybe. Maybe it's when you take a life."

Starling looked at him, sharply. "Don't say that like I do it all the time. It's only happened twice so far, and I did what I could to avoid it."

"Did you pity them?"

"Yes."

"Is that true? Clarice?"

"Yes."

"If someone were to kill you, Clarice, what would you prefer to see in the eyes of your murderer? Would pity help you to pass? Would it be an acceptable apology?"

"No."

"Would it anger you?"

"Yes."

"Does pity, in and of itself, anger you?"

"It makes me uncomfortable."

"Feeling it or being the receiver of it?"

"Both."

"Thank you, Clarice."

"You're welcome. Are you getting what you want out of this?"

"I'm encouraged," he said, smiling and giving her foot a pat. It happened so quickly and casually, she did not experience surprise at the touch, but surprise at the lack of amazement. She wondered if he was going to implement techniques to produce Stockholm Syndrome. Was that his aim? He didn't generally play unsophisticated games with her. When she thought of Stockholm Syndrome, she thought of the sex traffickers she'd dealt with—common, if not insidious little pricks that cash in on the vulnerability of young girls. She certainly did not think of Dr. Lecter. Then again, he wouldn't need to do much. The body and mind simply cannot stay in a state of emergency. It has to acclimate, eventually. He would only need to wait for her own body to betray her. She watched him come forward, until his lap was so near her left arm, she could feel the warmth. She looked up at him.

"I have to go to the bathroom. I don't suppose we're going the route of a bedpan."

Dr. Lecter smiled and then pursed his lips, looking at the bathroom.

"I mean, if you want to do that to yourself. By all means," she said, gesturing with her hand where it lay ineffectually above her head.

_Amuse him. Is he amused? Yes? Yes._

"Actually, that brings us to an interesting, albeit necessary point in our session," he began, and Starling's ears perked so slightly, he nearly did not notice. Her wheels were certainly turning, now. He was quite certain it was due to his use of the word 'session'.

_Keep her curious. Keep her active. Is she paying attention? Yes. _

"To bind or not to bind. Can I trust you to behave yourself? You've always seemed to me a rather sober woman. You can see what techniques are applicable to any given situation, when they are appropriate and when they are not. Do I need to worry about you fighting to prove your fortitude? Remember that you have nothing to prove, here."

"You can trust that I won't do anything to make my situation worse."

"And that would include behaving yourself. Yes?"

She gave him a withering look. "If you want to put it in those demeaning terms, for whatever reason. Yes."

"You understand you're not leaving until I decide it's time?"

"Yes."

"Good. You mentioned your roommate, earlier. In that regard, I think it necessary to inform you that you left her a note saying you've decided to take a little vacation, after all."

"I see," Starling said, slowly. He had untied one of her hands, and his thumb brushed along her wrist. She felt the hair on her arms rise and press against her sleeves. "I don't know if you've noticed, but our handwriting is quite different."

"I think she'll find it convincing," he answered. He was untying one of her feet. She was glad to still be wearing her shoes. He moved to the next foot.

"As I'm sure you noticed, I've brought a few of your things. I would love to correct your wardrobe, but can't have you coming home with too many new things."

Starling considered all that this statement implied. He intended to return her home, well enough to be questioned. He also intended for her to lie about her whereabouts? Or perhaps he assumed that anything he gave her would go into possession of the Bureau. She wanted to probe him on that, but chose to stay docile. He seemed to want her that way, for the time being. They were both walking a fine line. She didn't think he particularly wanted to kill her, but to assume he wouldn't was foolish._ To assume I wouldn't is, too._

Dr. Lecter was untying her last bound limb, her right arm. She hadn't seen the gun since he'd returned a second time from the kitchen. She wondered where he'd keep it. It's all she'd need…

He quickly stepped back, giving her plenty of room. He gestured to the bathroom. "Help yourself to anything you need, Clarice. I'm going to leave you alone for now. If you need anything, I'll be downstairs in the drawing room. If not, I'll be back up around lunch time. Do you like squash?"

"Yes."

"Good. Perhaps you'd like to take a shower."

Starling was standing now. Standing now, in the same room with him.

_No net, no cage._ _No net NO CAGE!_

"Are you implying something?" She asked, exerting control over her expression and mastering it.

Dr. Lecter's smile was big, his small teeth so perfectly straight and white. "Not at all, Clarice. I can appreciate your inherent redolence."

_Too flirtatious, too friendly? Was she put off beyond the bounds of her capability? No. She's mastered herself, again. _

He watched her retreat to the bathroom and was gone before she'd closed the door. Inside, she sat on the closed toilet seat and put her head in her hands. Pushing her hair back and sitting up, she let out a long, shaky breath, glancing at the bathtub. To bathe in the home of the monster. Starling's sense of hygiene won out against any part of her that thought it feasible he would attack her, psycho-style. God, how she hated that her hands trembled.

Like many of us, Starling did some of her best thinking in the shower. The reason, some suppose, is that there is so little to distract us. There is the addition of the calming effect of water. After all, we once lived in water; it is our nine months of peace, never to be truly felt again. Starling takes a lengthy shower, and by the time she leaves the bathroom, a cloud of steam escapes into her temporary quarters. The bedroom door was blessedly closed.

She looked in the closet to see what all he'd selected. She half-way expected to see the few pieces of lingerie she owned, but he had thankfully brought the clothes she wore the most often.

The clothes she wore the most often. He knew the clothes she preferred. How long had he been watching her? How closely? He'd been in her home. She thought of the lotion. Had to be him. She'd put it on, and something about that made her feel deceived, vulnerable and violated. She put it on her skin, let it absorb into her, and _him_ by proxy, on some level. Was that true, or just a silly trick of the psyche?

Starling put on a pair of jeans and a plain, button-up blouse. She lifted her damp hair off of the collar and sat on the bed. Her boot knife was gone.

_What the fuck, now?_

Starling bore down. She was not a crisis negotiation expert, but she knew the training, and had just come out of real world experience with it.

Force versus negotiation…Even if he didn't have her gun and boot knife, even if this was not on his turf, he still had some strength on her. She'd likely have some technique on him, but there was too much against her to use force and still feel smart. Smart. Right.

There are five steps to negotiation: Active listening, empathy, rapport, influence and behavioral change. The mistake most people make when trying to get someone to do something they want is skipping steps one through three. They start with influence and then expect behavioral change. If people were fundamentally rational, maybe explaining why you're right and they're wrong would work—but it never does.

Starling considered the situation from this perspective. In the current circumstance, she was the hostage and negotiator both. Could that work? She had to believe it could. Had she established active listening? Not as well as she could have, but then that depended…

Did she become his hostage this morning or a year ago when they first laid eyes on one another? From which point should she consider the beginning of this stand off? If she began in the dungeon, she was already through steps one through three. She stood and looked out of the window.

Holding her elbows and leaning forward, she could see the lake and a dock. She looked down. Far enough to break something. And he could be watching. She sighed. Better to be safe than sorry. She would begin with active listening. Begin again.

As a pastime, Dr. Lecter enjoyed playing around with algorithms. They can come in many forms and used for various functions. To Dr. Lecter, people presented themselves to him like algorithms. Previously arranged processes, responding to different problems and circumstance in an unambiguous process. In mathematics, they could be used to perform many useful tasks, such as calculations, automated reasoning and data processing; all things human minds could do, when used properly.

When an algorithm expressly interested him, like Starling, he liked to place it in a place or time, allowing it some things and forbidding others and then, within a controlled environment, set it loose to see what happened. Dr. Lecter had amused himself this way countless times, although he could not recall a time when an algorithm provided such a level of intrigue or self-indulgence. Ultimately, he knew, that's what this was: An extraordinary presentation of self-indulgence.

When he was certain she was preoccupied, Dr. Lecter retired to the study, downstairs. It was a pleasant day, and he opened a window instead of trifling with the air conditioning.

Outside, the noonday spread out against the sky like a wrinkled bedspread. The storm in the East was distant and puckered, tangled sheets kicked to the edge in the morning. The cat that rubbed its cheek along the chimney jumps down, lingering near the standing water within the roof hip. A whispering of its tail, makes a hasty leap. He looks at himself in the wavy window pane, his amber hypnotist eyes glaring. At last, he circles around the porch and, seeing that it would be a howling April night, curled up below and found a place to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Starling made her way down the hall, and knew he could hear her coming. The floorboards did not creak terribly, but the sound of footfalls was unmistakable. Didn't matter; she wasn't trying to sneak up on him. The right side of the hallway gave away to the railings separating first floor from second. The stairs were ahead. She looked over the railing. Front door, two tall windows on either side, curtains. A large foyer with dark, matte tile flooring. To the left of the front door, she could see the house led into another room. To the right, it lead to yet another room, this one with two double doors spread open. Light and warmth came from that direction. She heard the turning of paper.

_He's reading._

Before she could move again, she sensed movement from the room, the sound of something being placed down—a cup onto a surface. Sounds of footsteps across the room, shuffling of something, papers or folders. Then there was music, a recording of some kind of a piano. She recognized the piece. _Danse Macabre_, by Listz. Steely, biting Romanticism, alright. She descended the stairs, her hand drifting along the smooth banister, and she listened to the music.

_A pocket watch's long drift to the bottom of the Marianas Trench. It's hands count the seconds at the bottom of the sea__._ She wasn't sure where that had come from, and wondered for a moment if he was right about her. He often was.

At the bottom of the stairs she peered into the room. The fireplace was unlit. It would be summer soon. A table lamp next to the sofa and a sconce on the wall lit the room. The sofa faced the fireplace and there, Dr. Lecter sat with his back to her, facing the fireplace. His head was slightly bent, his collar as crisp as the stark line between dark hair and neck. There was a bandage, there. There was a bookcase on either side of the fireplace, which was oversized. A dark chair in a corner between book case and a window. The window was open, and she could feel the wet warmth from outside. She heard a page turn, and looked back at Dr. Lecter's sleek head. He had not spoken, but knew she was there. They both knew he knew. She came forward and his head came up, turned in her direction slightly. She could see his cheek, the tip of his nose and some eyelashes.

"Would you like some coffee, now?" he asked without turning further. "There's a cup for you." He gestured to the chair nearest the sofa. A coffee cup and saucer sat next to it on a side table. When she was seated, they looked at one another. Dr. Lecter sat the book aside and crossed his legs. Starling picked up the cup and took a sip.

"Mmm."

Dr. Lecter gave a pleased nod, and watched her examine her fingernails. "I cleaned them," he offered.

_Well, of course, _thought Starling_. A neat bouquet of his DNA, ready for extraction after all of this was over. One way or another._ "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"They're going to wonder where I am at work. You covered for Ardelia, but I can't just not show up on Monday. They'll wonder. And they'll look."

"I'm sure they'll understand when you explain where you were."

"And what am I to explain?"

"I would never ask you to lie, Clarice."

"Then you will have to leave."

"I'll have to move, yes. I'm optimistic it won't come to that."

She could not fathom what could possibly compel her to lie in his favor. Starling looked around, for a moment. "How long have you been here?"

"A few months. I'm renting, before you ask."

"I see. Where were you before here?"

"Here and there," he said, smiling. "But mostly there."

Starling nodded with her lips pursed. _Get him to talk. You can't listen if he's not talking. Step one, active listening._ "You like it?" She felt stupid, but shook the judgment away. Had to start somewhere.

"It's fine. The landlord likes things oversized. Not all of the furniture is appropriate to the space. But it will do. There are quite a number of ghastly renderings of Leda and the Swan. I've draped most of them."

"Why not that one," she pointed to the one above the fireplace.

"Because I like it."

"It's got good anatomical articulation," Starling said, looking at the painting.

"I agree. It's an Anne Shingleton."

"Why do you like it?" "It has a lot of heat in the fucking. I appreciate that in a visual representation of a story. If it has no feeling, no heart," he said, briefly placing a hand against his chest," then what are you communicating, really? That you've got a good handle on technique. However, I am of the opinion that without _idea_, technique alone falls short. The reverse can be true, too. All idea without technique can come across as childish or difficult to interpret—alienating the observer. Often it is under the guise of artistic gesticulation or a _heroically shared catharsis_, Clarice. But beneath that mask of grandiosity is laziness."

"Heroically shared catharsis. Was that a personal reference, Dr. Lecter?"

"I don't know, Clarice. Is it?"

"I think it would be fair to say so."

"And I agree," Dr. Lecter smiled at her, his eyes bright, for a moment. She thought of red, glittering Christmas tinsel. She thought of her first Christmas after her father's death.

"Tell me something, Clarice. Did you feel a burden lifted at all? Had you shared those things before me?"

"Not really. Off-hand remarks, that's all."

"Ummm. And my first question?"

"It's hard for me to say. More happened that year than just telling you a story."

"Hard to hear your own thoughts over all the noise, Clarice?"

"Yes. Do you ever feel that way?"

"I can relate to it. But there are ways to put the world on mute. I could show you how some time, if you ever asked. All you ever need to do is ask, Clarice."

"I'ppreciate it."

Dr. Lecter smiled, again. She wasn't trying as hard, now. She was relaxing, gaining confidence. "How's the headache?"

"It's there."

"How much caffeine do you usually have in a day?"

"At least three cups of coffee."

He tisked her. "Self-medicating is self-medicating, Clarice. Even if it_ is_ legal. Convenient, perhaps."

"Well, one thing at a time," she said, giving him a wry smile, a bit of mock warning. He seemed to like it. Starling narrowed her eyes and looked down into the coffee, thinking. "Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes, Clarice?"

"There's something I've wondered for awhile."

"Tell me."

"There seems to be a period of time, between Europe and your practice in Baltimore, in which you weren't…amusing yourself. Then you went on a killing spree. What prompted that?"

"There are always a myriad of ways to entertain one's self. The way to which you're referring, a killing spree as you call it, was merely one. As to why it began, I would liken it to someone who enjoys wood work, painting and quilting—or whatever multiple hobbies you like—and a natural rotation occurs. Who is to say what brings on a bout of woodworking, and how or why that gives way to painting. It happens often among those who enjoy multiple pastimes. The rotation, I mean."

"A rotation," Starling said, nodding.

"That's right. But I suspect that's not the case for you. Anything give you a _thrill_, Clarice?"

Starling did her best to not show the quickening of her heart, when they locked eyes at that intoned word. "I don't know that I'm a thrill-seeker. "

"No, I bet not."

"But then-cooking, drawing and cannibalism don't give you a thrill, either. Do they?"

"No, I wouldn't say I get a thrill by the common definition. But I can be delighted, Clarice. Can't you? Isn't there anything which delights you?"

"I'll have to think about that. When you ate a nurse's tongue, you're pulse never went above eighty. If it had, it would have indicated sadism. A thrill from causing pain. But you're not a sadist, are you?"

"There you go again with those sorry epithets, written by fools in little rooms where no experience is to be had. I thought you would have moved beyond that, Clarice. It's been nearly a year and I found you to be a quick study."

"Would it delight you if I _did_ move beyond it?"

Dr. Lecter's laugh was rich and intoxicating. "Oh, Clarice. You don't have to _try_ to delight me. You do it quite naturally. And I applaud you. You've been doing very well."

"Doing well?"

"Oh, yes. You've been an exemplary listener. And I give you permit to move to the following step. I forget though, perhaps you can remind me. Is it rapport which follows or empathy?"

Starling suddenly found the contents of her cup very interesting.

"Clarice?"

"Empathy. And that's the step we're on, actually."

"Then, brava. You managed to be a step ahead for a few minutes. In a way."

"Thanks."

"Oh, don't be destitute. I told you. You've been doing very well."

"Thanks."

"Ready for another cup?"

She nodded and thanked him when he took it. She watched him leave and chewed her lip. It had been close to three hours since she'd been awake. How many hours, days or weeks would this siege last? She'd just come out of one. She didn't know if she had the mental energy for another one with Hannibal Lecter. She already felt exhausted. When he returned, he sat the cup down next to her elbow on the table, and took his seat. What did he want? Control. Let him have it. Offer them things they want. What would she get in exchange? _Rest. No, no. Do not relinquish control for the sake of the peace that comes with surrender (Is it surrender?)_ Surrender would be if she relinquished hope. Hope wasn't going anywhere. In fact, she was full of it. What to get in return for not fighting for control? _Trust. Yes, trust_. Trust leads to opportunity. Trust leads to negotiation. What now, then? _Let him lead_. She took a sip of coffee and waited.

And waited. Long minutes of silence came after that, and Starling felt a little disappointed when he resumed reading. For just a moment, she started to ask what he was reading, but stopped herself. After nearly an hour of silence, Starling's thoughts were enough to keep her on edge, but she was slipping into an odd, tense boredom. She found herself glancing at him, where he sat. It was strange, to say the least, seeing him outside of a cell without his prison clothes. There, his more sinister qualities, which he made less of an effort to mask while imprisoned, seemed to match the dark, grim backdrop of an asylum. At the same time, the way he moved and spoke did not. He didn't allow his surroundings to affect him. Starling considered that she possessed the same wisdom, and marveled for a moment at the observation that they had something in common. This, at least, was a safe connection to make. Here, however, he appeared perfectly befit in the room. His dark clothes, his clean, masculine scent; there was nothing out of the ordinary about the picture. She tilted her head, looking at him. She'd never given herself the time to do so. He was not looking at her, and while she thought it reasonable to assume he knew she was watching him, she chose to overrule the assumption. If he didn't like it, he could tell her so. It was important to observe him, to know this man who kept her hostage. This was what she told herself. . .

His hands were the same, except for the fact that his sixth finger was gone. Some muted place in Starling did not favor it. In three minutes, Starling's eyes returned to Dr. Lecter's hands seven times. In three minutes, her eyes returned to his lips five times, though she stopped herself nine times. She does not consciously acknowledge it. The undercurrents of her thoughts, feelings and actions, both primal and advanced, are rooms not ready for exploration. Starling's foot began to twitch, erratically. His eyes were focused. His posture, easy. His features were slightly less fine than they once had been. She was quite certain he'd had a little work done. His ears were the same, and his lips. He had good skin for his age, she noted. He had more color than when he'd lived in a dungeon. _What a melodramatic word_, _dungeon_, she considered. This rogue thought was, unbeknownst to Starling, a strategic one offered up by her unconscious mind; sent to block a deeper reaction to the image of Dr. Lecter's face and body so close to her own. Had the reaction been given voice, it would have observed Dr. Lecter's sexual appeal. The rogue thought does not completely block this reaction, but muddies it. Two words were able to form. _He's so…_

Upon being offered these two words by her own mind, Starling's consciousness fumbles with them for a moment, like nervous hands catching a fragile thing, unexpectedly. _He's so…_

Starling felt the distant sentiment, could feel the animal alert to attraction (_the whirl of a head toward the caught scent, a rabbit's twitching whiskers) _and even the mental chemistry for the briefest of moments; heat in a palm against a door, a door containing the flames and chaos of an inferno. She scrambled for words to finish the fragmented sentence, came up with the word 'charismatic', and moved quickly forward in time. All of this, in less than two seconds. All of this, too swift for analysis. She continued with her observation of Hannibal Lecter and, noting the even plane of his shoulders _(a grasshopper leaping, brittle twig snapping)_ and the veins along his fair hands _(a buck starting, haunches shuddering)_ and his dark sleek head _(a chameleons tongue launching, ballistic speed in slow motion-sticky, elastic and…)_ and Hannibal Lecter's maroon eyes which suddenly held her whole _(a gazelle veering, tufts of grass fluttering!)_

"Clarice?"

"Yes?" she asked quickly, her foot stopping its movement.

He looked at her without speaking a beat too long for her liking, and she swallowed. "Are you bored?" he asked, with a familiar intone of mock.

"Yes," she admitted.

"I take it, based upon your behavior," he said, glancing at her foot," that you're not used to that."

"No. I suppose I'm not."

"An excellent beginning."

"Beginning of what?"

"Discovering what delights you, of course. You create an existence of constant movement, in order to ignore your internal dialogue, so that you never have a moment which lasts long enough to get bored. What comes from boredom, Clarice?"

"I would have to say creativity, maybe."

"Yes! Very good. Boredom leads to a search, a search for input. Input, particularly _new_ input, leads to creativity."

He went back to his reading, and she felt irritable. Starling set down the nearly empty cup and stood, stretching. "Where is the nearest bathroom?"

"Through that hallway on the left."

"Thank you." When she returned, she made her way to the bookcase. There were a good number in other languages, so she first just looked for words she recognized. She noticed a copy of Goethe's _Faust_. She pulled it out and looked at the back. It was translated. She opened it at a random point. On one side was the original German and on the other of each page, was the English translation. At least she was somewhat familiar with the story. She sat back down and opened it.

Nearly an hour later, Dr. Lecter looked up at her. To his satisfaction, she did not notice. "Are you familiar with _Faust_, Clarice?"

"I read it in high school, but my memory was a little fuzzy. It's coming back, bit by bit."

"Which parts stood out in your memory?"

"The general dread. The sense that things will not work out."

"Ah, a certain symmetry, perhaps?" Starling looked up at him.

"In what way?"

"Are you not going about your day-to-day life with a general sense of foreboding?"

She considered, and he waited patiently. "No, not foreboding. That's too strong a word."

"What word would you use?"

"Unresponsive."

Dr. Lecter put a finger along his nose, thinking. "When was the last time you felt responsive, Clarice?"

"This morning."

"Which part?"

"When I woke up and you were in the doorway."

"Not the struggle in the parking lot?"

"No."

Dr. Lecter nodded, as though he had confirmed something. "From that, I surmise that I stimulate you. Would you agree?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

"Then the problem is not pathological, but psychological. Your father, the dead night watchman, figures largely in your value system. He is the imago that swells your heart with a sense of what is good and right. What do you suppose _swells within_ at the sight of me? What do I represent to you, Clarice? As you said, the last time we were in contact, more happened than the telling of a tragedy. Many associations were likely made, in addition to the concrete memories you have of me. What are they? Where do I figure in your mind?"

"You are everything that he was not."

"And what is that, Clarice? Good and right? Those are artless shapes. That is drawing an oval for a head. Look at the painting, Clarice. Is her head an oval? Is her breast a circle? Is the swan a diamond? I want anatomical articulation. "

"He had self-control. He-"

"And I do not? Take a moment to think about that, Clarice. If it's a matter of self-control, then one must assume your father wanted to kill and eat those who offended him, but had the self-control to resist."

"Okay. He protected the innocent."

"Alright. And the opposite of protecting the innocent would be to destroy innocence. Is that fair to say?"

"…Yes."

"Are you unsure?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Tell me your best memory of your father, Clarice."

Starling looked away. It was not avoidance, he knew. She was genuinely accessing her memories. "It's a patchwork. His square-dancing shirt, hanging in the closet. His buttons against my cheek when he held me. The smell of tobacco, his pocketknife. Peeling oranges in the kitchen and telling knock-knock jokes."

"And what of_ that_ is the opposite of me?"

A beat.

"Love."

"Ah," Dr. Lecter said, a finger in the air. "Now, that is more interesting. I am the opposite of love, then. So, hate?"

"No. Dissolution."

"So love, in your mind, is the bringing together of things. And the opposite of that, is dissolution. The undoing of things. Now. Tell me what I have undone."

Her eyebrows were knitted. He could see she was struggling with her own mind. It was a difficult thing to come to terms with, as it concerned something very close to her. It is often difficult, if not impossible, for patients to come to terms with their own delusions, even after years of therapy. Help her? He decided to give her space and wait.

"You don't have to answer, now," he said." Just think about it, when it suits you. For now, I think it's time for lunch. You've been oscillating between boredom and stimulation in this room for awhile, now. If you'd like a change of scenery, I would encourage you to venture outside. There is a nice pavilion which overlooks the dock. It's a little warm, but if you stay in the shade, I think you'll find it adequate. I'll be in the kitchen. Lunch will be ready and served in the dining room in half an hour. The dining room is across the foyer and through the music room. Alright?"

"Alright." It was nice outside, but getting humid. Starling shielded her eyes for a moment, looking at the sky. There were clouds in the distance, and they were the kind that brought rain. As if to confirm her suspicion, she saw distant lightening followed by the lowest rumble of thunder. She went forward, scanned the water and shore. No boat. There were other lake houses, but they littered along the other side of the vast lake. They indeed had quite a lot of privacy. She glanced around the side of the house. It couldn't take too long to get to one of those other houses on foot. She was near the west side of the house, and she glanced in the nearest window. He was there. The window faced what Starling presumed was the kitchen sink. He tilted his head and beckoned her with two fingers, _come here._

Starling wondered how fast he could run in his nice shoes. For just a beat, she considered it. He would catch her, she was almost certain. There was a door on the side of the house, that couldn't be more than a few strides from where he was standing. That wasn't much of a head start. Clarice Starling was an endurance runner, not a speed runner. But…_ummmm_. The thought of him running in his nice shoes, tree branches catching him, perhaps tripping over a root before reaching out and grabbing her… She gave a curt nod and turned back to the lake, and then the sky. It was hard to gauge if the storm was headed precisely in their direction. It was.

They ate across from each other at the table, each focusing on their food. At only one point did Dr. Lecter look up and admire the shine on her lips. At only one point did Starling think about her gun and boot knife. When they were through, Starling excused herself. Back in her quarters, she lay down and rubbed her throbbing temples. She wasn't a napper. The only times she successfully napped were the times she had a headache.

During the minutes it took her to drift off, she wondered if she'd be able to sleep in this place, with the imago of dissolution lurking somewhere beneath her.

* * *

She awoke to the calm, rhythmic tapping of rain. Regaining her memories in a quick, snowballing effect, she snapped her eyes open. She rolled over and looked for a clock, but couldn't find one. She sighed and glanced at the window. By the amount and position of the light, she'd guess it to be close to six in the afternoon, but the rain made it hard to tell. She must have slept until late that morning when he brought her, maybe as late as eleven. For a bad moment, her mind attempted to bring forth imagined visions of her asleep in his car, of him carrying her inside, cleaning her nails, tying her to the…she stopped the thoughts. Glancing at the closed bedroom door, she listened. Beneath the steady patter of rain was music. She couldn't be sure if it was another recording, but had the feeling it wasn't. The home absorbed the sound differently.

Her headache was gone, she was glad to note. And now, to proceed. Proceed with what? Was it too soon for negotiations? Had she given him enough sense that she had relinquished control over the situation? She decided she'd know once she saw him. She went to the bathroom, and after relieving herself, she leaned against the countertop and looked at herself in the mirror for the first time that day. All things considered, she looked refreshed. Her hair was a bit messy, and her shirt had become wrinkled. She straightened up, ran her fingers through her hair. She removed the shirt, and stood in jeans and a black tank top. She weighed the pros and cons of allowing herself the comfort of domesticity. If she were in her own home, she'd likely be wearing what she was wearing now, minus the bra. She really wanted to remove it. She did, and examined the effect. Considering the color, she felt it was difficult to tell, unless someone was looking for it. Most men would.

Starling was unsure of many things; she had the humility and the wisdom to admit that. One thing she was sure of was _how_ unsure she was about the humanity of Dr. Lecter. Yes, he was in a human man's body. But how much in common did he really have with one? Was he ever unsure? Was he ever embarrassed or defensive? Had he ever fought for a cause? Had he ever been in love? Had he ever stroked a fevered head? Did he look at tits?

Starling snorted at herself in the mirror. She didn't think he'd read into it, at least. If he did, he'd likely come to a reasonably accurate conclusion. She was not the type of woman to flaunt her body, or use her femininity to manipulate. In fact, she despised it when women placed feminine strength in their sexuality.

Downstairs, Starling found Dr. Lecter at his harpsichord. The composition was lively, whimsical and wicked at once and he played it fervidly, putting a little bit of his torso into it. His dexterous hands moved fluidly, if not aggressively, occasionally crossing one another. She could see the strength in his forearms. She waited quietly in the doorway until he'd finished the piece. He took a breath of what, she decided, was satisfaction. His shoulders rolled and then squared, before he turned to her.

"Good evening, Clarice."

"Good evening, Dr. Lecter."

"How was your nap?"

"Fine. What were you playing?"

"_Les Cyclopes_."

"Would you tell me about it?" she asked, taking a seat on the divan near the window.

"Certainly. It was composed by Jean-Philippe Rameau around 1724. It is a descriptive piece depicting the gods' forgers of the thunderbolt. Its eruptive and theatrical character foreshadows the cataclysms of the _Tragédies Lyriques._ It is representative of the novel virtuosity that Rameau bestowed to the harpsichord."

"Virtuosity?"

"Yes. At the time, it was a prodigal instrument, and Rameau was not modest when it came to his mastery of it. Headache gone?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Of course. Tell me...what is your prodigal instrument, Clarice?"

She watched him spin around on the bench, so that he faced her. She crossed her legs and placed her hands in her lap over her thighs. "The.40 caliber Glock, preferably the compact."

Dr. Lecter was delighted. "That's only a recent development. Was there something before that?"

"Before that it was the standardized test."

"Why do you think you excelled in testing?"

"I work well under pressure."

"Do you feel pressure now?"

"I feel like it's a good idea to stay present. What's your prodigal instrument, Dr. Lecter?"

He smiled, fiendishly. Starling fought the urge to squirm and met his eyes, steadily. "I'll show you, if it comes to that."

Starling breathed in and out quickly, glanced out of the window and then back to Dr. Lecter. "What is on the agenda for this evening?"

"What would you _enjoy_ doing, Clarice?"

"Within your parameters, I can only assume."

"Of course," he said in a kindly tone, a humble bow of his head.

She looked away. "I don't know."

"That sounded rather dejected. Have you regressed? You're practically pouting, Clarice."

"Have a little faith. This is my second siege within a forty-eight hour window, and I just woke up. I'd say I'm doing alright."

"A siege implies surrounding and attacking a fortified place in such a way to isolate it. No one has surrounded us, and won't any time soon. I prefer to think of it as a reunion, although I'll give you this: I _will_ exhaust your defenses, if I haven't already. But hear me when I say, I have all the faith in the world in you."

"You have total confidence in breaking me down, but you have faith in me? I don't understand that."

"You will. Now, going back to what you'd like to do this evening, think in terms of how you'd like to feel, not in the specifics. Tell me what you want, and I'll fill in the gaps for you."

"I want progress."

"Progress in what?"

"Our _reunion_."

"Does that mean you would like for the reunion to end as quickly as possible, or to understand more about the reunion?"

"I wouldn't mind having both, if one does not slow down the other."

"Do you suppose that to be a tall order for me?"

"I don't suppose anything."

"Do you know what_ I_ suppose? I suppose that you want _progress_ far beyond the bounds of this house."

"I couldn't argue that."

"But for progress, one must trust their own judgment enough to take action. Do you trust yourself enough to take action, here?"

Starling's lips parted and she turned her head a fraction. "Action," she said, as though she was trying the word out in her mouth. "Action could mean violence. I'd like to avoid that."

"Why does it necessarily mean violence, Clarice? Action can be taken in terms of words, decision-making, so forth. Now what action could you take to induce progress, here?"

Starling plunged. "Would you be willing to enter negotiations?"

Dr. Lecter closed his eyes, as though he had entered prayer. When he opened them again, there was something new in the endless night of his eyes.

"It sounds to me like you've decided what you'd like to do, this evening."

They looked at one another in silence for a few charged moments. Dr. Lecter stood quietly and Starling mirrored him, down to impeccable posture.

"I need to start dinner. It is my opinion that we should proceed with negotiations after we've eaten. It could take a rather long time, and we wouldn't want to be interrupted by those pesky betrayals of our anatomy, would we?"

"Fine."

"Would you like some wine while I start? I invite you to join me in the kitchen, but you're free to do whatever you like."

"No thank you, to the wine. Yes, I'll be joining you."

"You mean chaperon," he said with a grin.

"You have a habit of feeding your guests exotic fare."

Dr. Lecter gave a deeper bow, before inviting her forward with an arm. "Come. "

In the kitchen, Dr. Lecter was busy with his pots and pans, and after a half hour, he turned to her and said:

"Clarice, would you like to go upstairs and change for dinner?"

Taken aback slightly, she cleared her throat. "Have I something to change into?"

"Go and see," he answered, smiling. "I'll do the same. You won't miss anything, I promise."

When they had resumed in the kitchen, Starling came in second. He looked up at her and stopped what he was doing. She had found the gown in the closet, and correctly assumed it was appropriate. She was delectable in a whisper of silk and she licked her lips under his scrutiny.

"_Come sei bella_," he murmured to himself, and offered her a prosecco cocktail with elderflower liquor, fig, honey and thyme. She took it and let him lead her to the dining room. Once seated, she didn't wait long before he brought her an appetizer. After he'd placed it in front of her, he gave her a smile.

"Bruschetta with figs, gorgonzola, pancetta crumbles, and toasted hazelnuts." "Thank you." "You're very welcome." Dr. Lecter's main course was nearly done, and he had enough time to idle and enjoy watching her enjoy his food. While he lingered, they casually discussed the themes of chamber music, a subject of which Starling was not entirely ignorant. By the time he left her again, he felt confident that she was more relaxed than she'd been in the music room. _And yet_, he reminded himself_, she had never stopped calculating_. Everything she did or did not do was theater. She was putting on a show of amenability; the gown, the light conversation, the tentative civility…_No, no. Never for a moment assume she is complacent. Never assume she is without._ Dr. Lecter with a finger along his nose considered the image of Starling at his table. He liked the image very much, and decided she should be at his table as often as he could manage. When he had first decided to pursue her, he had considered using hypnosis and pharmaceuticals to aid her compliance; he still had them on hand if it came to that. However, he was hopeful he would not have to use those particular tools. He was curious to see what she would do to get out of the situation. He had seen her flex her muscles when under pressure, and he enjoyed watching her process. This was a different angle, an unfamiliar one. He had only been able to see glimpses, before. She had not feared for her own life, before. He wondered how that might change her thinking and behavior, what beliefs or feelings would be kicked to the surface? _Hmm…_

The main course consisted of mussels in white wine with sopressata and sun-dried tomatoes.

"Mmm."

Dr. Lecter decided he very much enjoyed that sound coming from her closed lips. He appreciated it the most when she made the sound with her eyes closed.

Dessert was torta caprese, and was served with cappuccinos in the drawing room. Their conversation remained light, and when Dr. Lecter felt that they had settled into a harmonious place, he put down his cappuccino and cleared their plates. When he returned, Starling's body-language suggested she was ready. She looked at him where he stood in the open doorway.

"Should we begin here? I'm not sure this room is quite right," Starling reflected.

"I agree. Perhaps a neutral place. You've not seen the conservatory. May I show it to you?"

"Alright."

She followed him through a hallway she hadn't been down, past the stairs and kitchen. They passed a pier glass, and she startled internally at the sight of their bodies in the same open space.

The house was darker here. She followed him into a room with a glass wall and ceiling. It had gotten dark outside, between the setting of the sun and the storm. The rain was a little louder here, but still coming down softly enough that the noise was not intrusive, but calming. Vines grew up along the wall and onto the roof. Two chairs faced each other with a table in front of them. Dr. Lecter pulled one of them out for her. After tucking her into it, he stood in front of her, his hands on his own chair back.

"Would you like some candles?"

"Yes, that would be nice."

He nodded, and she watched him moving around the other side of the room, watched flickers of light develop against the wall in front of him. He turned and came to sit in front of her. The light was low but warm, and distant lightening lit Dr. Lecter's passive face, the light making shadows on his face from the ribbons of water and vines on the glass, like thorny, black tears.


	4. Chapter 4

"Shall I begin, or would you prefer?" he asked.

"Please," she invited him with an upturned palm.

She had to wait three minutes before he spoke.

"You will not leave here until I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you will not assist in my capture or demise."

Starling blinked. She had a momentary reflex to laugh, but overcame it. Pauses were good in negotiation. Important, in certain scenarios. She'd waited for him to speak for three minutes. He waited for five.

"The only way I would even consider such a thing is if_ I_ know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you would end your hobby of murder and cannibalism."

She felt it mirrored the absurdity of what he had asked of her. To her bewilderment, he seemed to consider it.

"I asked you to end one of your favorite pastimes; I suppose it's only fair you ask me to end one of mine."

"Chasing you or being involved in your demise is not one of my favorite pastimes, it's my duty. But I thought it was fair, so if you do too, then it's irrelevant, I guess."

"Why do you think I do it, Clarice?"

"Boredom."

"And is that all that I do when I'm bored?"

"No, you—you play music, you go to the symphony. You cook, you-"

"That's right. Hearkening back to our earlier conversation, I am capable of rotating my pastimes. But you're not asking me to rotate them, you're asking me to neuter them."

"And you're asking me to mutilate my sense of duty. If we consider one another's priorities, and we must, one is no more cruel than the other."

"Agreed. Now. If you're going to take away one of my toys, with what shall I replace it?"

"To know that, we'd need to discuss what it is you get out of murdering and eating people. Care to share?"

Dr. Lecter's teeth seemed whiter in the low light of the conservatory and the occasional eruptions of white light from the lightening. She noted the space between the lightening and the clap of thunder was getting smaller; the storm was getting closer. _How fitting_, she thought, wearily. She was looking out of the vine covered glass, but looked back at Dr. Lecter. The candles from behind him made a halo around his seated form.

"You tell me. What do you suppose I get out of it?"

"Power," she guessed, "control."

"I have that, regardless."

Starling thought back, and remembered the church collapses. "You like to see the destruction of faith, it's your favorite thing."

"Faith? Are you sure that's not incidental?"

"What, innocence, then? Virtue?"

"Innocence and virtue, ummm. More epithets. What could faith, innocence and virtue mean to me? What about you? What about Daddy?"

"These are negotiations, not wheedling. I won't waste your time with it, if you do me the same courtesy. Tell me what you like."

"What I like is the destruction of delusions, Clarice. They often come in the form of faith, or in the relentless pursuit of virtue. And sometimes, a wholly delusional person is simply taking up space. I repurpose them. Delusion itself bores me. Seeing it destroyed can be beautiful, droll and even useful. The real question, Clarice, is how do you replace that?"

He paused, taking some reading in her eyes. He went on, guessing correctly from where her line of thinking had stemmed. "I don't suppose you're going to collapse churches for me, Clarice."

Something flashed through her eyes, and Dr. Lecter inclined his head. He had never seen this, and was instantly interested.

"My. My. What _are_ you thinking of, little Starling?"

"Nothing. Nothing that matters," she said, curtly.

"You thought of something. What was it?"

"A fleeting thought that doesn't do anybody any good. Give me a moment, I-I need to think about this."

"I will not give you a moment. Tell me what it was, Clarice. Tell me now, or negotiations have failed."

She looked at him sharply. Her heart was suddenly pounding. She looked away.

"It was an inside joke with myself, more than anything."

"Then why did you have such sudden, passionate anxiety, Clarice?"

"It was an unsettling thought."

"Tell me."

"You like the destruction of delusion."

"Yes…"

"Which you said often comes in the form of innocence."

"Yesss…"

"And I have a, uh, condition which occurred to me at an inappropriate time."

"A condition? Clarice?"

Starling didn't know how to say what she had to say. She decided to just jump in. Just a bit of private information she'd never discussed. She'd lived through that with him once before. The worst that could happen was feeling a little embarrassed. Right?

"When I was a teenager, I had a hymenectomy due to an imperforated hymen. I was thirteen. Despite the surgery, it grew back and I had a second hymenectomy when I was fifteen. After that, I quit trying."

A pause.

"You have a regenerating hymen, Clarice?"

"Yes. It reminded me of what you said. On two different levels," she went on. Dr. Lecter noted that despite the intense spread of red on her face and throat, she still spoke very well. "The destruction of innocence and the destruction of delusion."

"The destruction of innocence is obvious, but what is the delusion?" Dr. Lecter asked, non-committal. His thoughts were surging forward. Unnerved by his obvious contemplation, Starling answered his question in spite of the fact that she wasn't sure he cared what she said next.

"That a hymen has anything to do with virginity. It is an age-old, ideological paradigm. Sexual desire and orgasm do not seem to even enter the picture. Nor the idea of being opened by something other than a penis. It is the idea that a woman is not sexually real in her own right, and that it takes a man to make her so."

Dr. Lecter looked back at her at that, and smiled. "Quite true. Clarice?"

"Yes?"

"Had some part of you considered offering me your perpetual virginity?"

"No," she said, too quickly.

"Lying in a negotiation is a big _no-no_. You are well-aware of that."

"If a part of me did, it was an echo of an echo from a dream of a dream and was not given voice."

Dr. Lecter sat back in his chair. "Why, I think it's very interesting, Clarice. Why do you suppose any part of you would think that tearing a hymen, which would only grow back, would interest me?"

"Are you saying you're not interested?"

"Are you offering it to me?"

"I…can't."

"No, of course not. Nor would it be sufficient replacement to something I enjoy doing, which may strike at any time for the remainder of my life. To make a meaningless incision, _a single time_, would be a poor stand-in."

"A single…are you saying you would agree to something so repulsive if it were a reoccurring episode? I can't believe that you would stoop so low."

"Why is that? You always did have trouble calling me evil, Clarice. I find it enduring, but at a certain point, one must come to terms with one's cohort."

"You didn't answer the question."

"Well, this is still a negotiation, is it not?"

"…Yes," she said, slowly.

"Then," he offered his palms. "Proceeding on the plank of this new revelation…negotiate."

"Negotiate the perpetual breaking of my hymen for the termination of your career as a murderer and cannibal?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Lecter—"

"Perhaps we will come to an impasse, and begin again. If so, it is only natural. But new information has been introduced, and it is logical to explore it. So," he said, with finality, "Negotiate. Clarice."

"You—you would consider…"

"That depends. If you were to offer it, in a dream of a dream, what would be the terms?"

Starling recoiled into the safety of her mind for many long minutes, and Dr. Lecter sat very still, so as to not interrupt. He had no impatience for her answer. He felt a bit of energy in his fingertips and wondered...

It was true, he had not considered her as a lover, but only because it was, by his observation, not possible; at least not the last time he had considered it. There was always room for change, but the kind of change necessary for her to make a leap like _that_ had seemed miles and miles away. Before, there were bars and a stout nylon net between them, but that stretched along the borders of every country and every house. Unlike any women he'd known before her, and a few he'd known since her, she knew what he was. That created a vast gulf between them, a gulf he thought he might never be able to cross. With that in mind, he did not allow himself to indulge in mindless fantasies. He turned those signals off in her presence. What had just rattled loose in Clarice Starling? What had it rattled loose in _him_?

Yes, he'd known she was attracted to him on a base, animal level. He had suspected there was more to it than that, even. There was an undeniable rapport, yes. She was not stupid. He had not known exactly what feelings or desires were so deep-seated. He did not chastise himself for this; as insightful as he was, he was not a mind-reader. Whatever this was, this was deeply buried. He had had to threaten her to draw it out. But the fervidity of what she felt for him had to have been a long-winded howl from within for her conscious mind to have heard it. _My…_

While the energy in Hannibal Lecter's fingertips began to spread, Starling flitted about in her own mind. Starling's memory palace is not as structured as Dr. Lecter's, and she finds herself in her childhood kitchen, then flitting into the front yard, watching her father's car pull in, and then the piranha infested waters. She flew to the ranch in Montana, to Hannah's sturdy back and to the Lutheran home in Bozeman. To her bedroom in her duplex, back to Hannah's back. Pleading eyes and bitter tears. She found herself in the kitchen for only a moment, and suddenly found herself returning. Sitting in the kitchen, drinking 'smart people's tea'. Warm ceramic on her hands, impassive walls and no eyes watching, no eyes at all. Alone. Alone…

What could the illusion of virginity mean? It is only symbolic of the loss of innocence. It is a piece of tissue, her own, not unlike a fortified rose pedal. Only a little piece of tissue. And what would the return be? Lives.

Had anyone, in the history of humanity, had the opportunity to save lives with their virginity? What was virginity? Starling had had fingers inside of her. Her own, and two different doctors. Her hymen had been broken three times, in total. The first two times by a doctor, and the second time by accident. It had not broken completely the third time, but she counted it because it had hurt like hell and there had been a little blood.

_Focus_.

In Starling's experience, she had always found home within the walls of organized systems; institutions which provided her with coherent models for what behavior led to success. It had worked fine. That framework had been the glittering palladium of her life; it was her statue of Athena on the citadel of Troy, guarding and guiding her. Was she capable of creating a framework of her own, if only in this one way-this negotiation with a murderer? Institutions had failed _him_. That meant frameworks created by organizations were not infallible. There was no rehabilitation of the monster; he would be what he is. Should they catch him again, he would simply wait in the comfort of his mind, the world on mute, until he had his next chance. More likely, they would kill him. She found she'd like to avoid that, if possible.

Instead of attempting to change him or cage him, could she mediate between him and the world? If even for a little while? Was it wrong to take that kind of initiative? A part of her screamed, _YES!_ But that voice came from the imagined judgment of a towering jury made up of a smattering of people, both respectable and intolerable, and some who were faceless and did not even exist. Only one among them truly mattered to her. She could not apply her father's sage to this. Her father, she suddenly realized on a deep and fundamental level, was a different person. He had led a different life, had made different choices based upon his personal experiences. Could she not make her own annotations in the margins of life?

But…like this? She racked her mind, trying to think of what else she had to offer him, and every time, she returned to the scenario which caused the least damage to people as well as her, personally. The rooms of her mind, in their shifting and shuffling to make room for these notions came to a gradual destination.

A hymen meant nothing. It was a vile concept, giving Hannibal Lecter her 'perpetual virginity'; yet she could not help but be in wonder at such an opportunity. What had been his question? Terms. What terms? _How could I possibly consider this? I've already thought through that._

Terms. It wouldn't matter. He would not agree to her terms. It wouldn't matter, so it would be alright at least to list them. Terms from a dream within a dream…

"How many times would you want to do it?" she asked, in a strange voice.

"Preferably, I'd like to do it again and again until one of us is dead."

"No."

"I thought you'd say that," he said, smiling. "Let's start with things on which we both are unwilling to compromise."

"I don't want you to-" Starling shifted in her seat,"- I don't want sex. No sex."

"So you prefer I use… alternative means?"

"Yes."

"Fine," he started, noting her look of alarm. He went on." We'll do our best to distance you from the word 'prostitute'," he said. She flinched, as he'd expected her to. It was important to get that concept out of the way, immediately. "Which you are not and never will be," he added. Before she could think much about it or respond, he went on, "In regard to the number of times we repeat the episode, here is something which may get the ball rolling: I will not terminate my pastime. I will suspend it, for as long as our agreement is in progress."

"That's something you refuse to compromise on?"

"Yes."

Starling licked her lips and swallowed. Her body language could not have been more protective of her center. Her legs were crossed tightly, her arms folded across her middle, her wrists crossed where her thighs met.

"It takes a year or so for it to grow back," she pointed out."At least it has, in the past."

"So then, once a year," Dr. Lecter mused. He was quiet for a moment, before continuing."For how many years, Clarice?"

"Let's put a pin in that. I have another thing I won't compromise. At the end of the agreement, should an agreement be made, you will swear not to injure or kill me."

"Done. And you will swear to not use anything you've learned during the agreement to aid the FBI in my whereabouts. At the end of the agreement, we will part ways. I will do what I do, and you will do what you do. We will resume our respective paths, undisturbed. But-consider. In the interim, you will likely have saved lives. Anywhere from a few to a dozen. That appeals to you, doesn't it? And you will have done so, no less, by sacrificing your symbolic purity. Doesn't that, on some level, taste _good_ to you, Clarice?"

"I don't know," she began, her features hardening," does the thought of destroying my symbolic purity taste good to you?"

"Oh, yes. Especially if we get down to brass tax, and I get what I want."

"…What is it, _exactly_, that you want?"

"We'll get to that. Put a pin it, as you said. I believe it's my turn. During the agreement, no one else will enter you. You will remain abstinent."

"That's ludicrous."

"Are we at a stalemate already, then?"

"Are _you_ serious?"

"Of course."

"Dr. Lecter—you're condemning me to celibacy."

"So are you."

Starling sighed aggressively, looking away. She bared her teeth for just a flash. A clap of lightening made her jump. She ran a hand through her hair, shakily.

"This is insane."

"Are we at a stalemate, Clarice?"

Two minutes passed.

"No."

"Excellent. Your turn."

"During these…_episodes_, you will not injure me. Beyond the obvious."

"Done. And you will not simply lie on your back, with your eyes closed. You will participate."

Starling ignored the flood of feelings that statement brought on, and responded in the only way she could; negotiating in her flat, agent voice. "That might conflict with one of my limits. I don't want your-I will not perform fellacio."

"I will not enter you with anything but my hands. That does not conflict."

_His hands_…A minute passed.

"I need more specifics," she said, finally. "What kind of…participation?"

"I don't know yet, Clarice. I don't have specific scenarios planned out. But I want the freedom to explore."

Starling gave an explicit look of displeasure. "You won't injure me?"

"No."

"I will leave no differently, other than a broken hymen?"

"Correct."

Starling felt like it was dangerous to agree to it. He was the master of lying by omission.

"I need more. I can't go further without more information. You could be hiding something from me, and I'm not asking the right questions."

"I will not make you do anything unsanitary, dangerous or derogatory. Nor will I _do_ anything to you that is unsanitary, dangerous or derogatory."

"We'll come back to it."

"Fine. Before we continue, let us review the things we still must review. The length of our agreement, what I want, which is being revealed as we unravel this, and now whether or not you will agree to the term in which you are expected to participate in the episodes."

"Yes."

'Alright. Moving forward. Your turn."

"No one else will ever be involved," Starling said. "We will not speak of this to anyone, not for the rest of our respective lives."

"Naturally."

"Good," she said, nodding. She was getting into the flow of negotiations, despite the niggling at her heart and loins. She wondered if she was a fraud and had always been one. She could not face those thoughts, now. "Go."

"During the episodes, you will surrender control to me. You will obey me without question, and there will be no arguments, hesitations or complaints."

"_Jesus_," Clarice leaned over with her elbows on her knees for a moment, her hands covering her mouth and nose.

"Well, I suppose we can't help his involvement, but we're on to the next item."

"That had to have been at least three different terms in one," she argued.

"Only one term. I only elaborated, as my last one seemed to confuse you. I do not wish for either of us to be confused on any aspect of this."

"I guess I _am_ confused. I thought we were talking about meeting once a year, you break my hymen, presumably with your-your fingers, and then we go our separate ways." _Fuck_, _that sentence was a struggle, _Starling admitted in the privacy of her thoughts.

"I'm saying that's _not_ what I want. I am explaining to you what I _do_ want. Two days," he held up his fingers. "Beginning at sunup, we will be in one another's presence. Then, I want a whole night with you. Beginning at sundown and ending at sun up. The following day, you will be released from your submission, and the day will be dedicated to aftercare. I want freedom to explore your body, which will include the breaking of your hymen. How many times has it been broken?"

"Three."

"Twice by doctors, yes? And you were under anesthesia, or at least local anesthesia. Who broke it the third time?"

"Me. On accident."

"Get a little belligerent, did you?"

"It was during sports."

"Ummm, I see. But it's never been broken by a lover?"

"No."

"I expected. It's not very encouraging, is it? All of that ambition, add to that a very stubborn hymen, and to top it all off, a building _patchwork_ of unpleasant memories. I'll bet they surface at the most inconvenient of times, don't they, Clarice?"

"Yes."

"Yes," he said, in mock pity. "So," he began sharply, "for one night per year, you will take_ me_ as a lover. Not a doctor, Clarice. Did you hear me?"

"I heard you," she heard herself say. She must be falling, falling asleep or falling awake. _Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan a tower that will pierce the clouds? Lay first the foundation of humility._ She didn't know where that had come from. So many scraps and shreds of information stranded in her mind. Dr. Lecter was talking.

"And on that night, and on that night only, you will submit to my ministrations, none of which will harm or injure you. That is what I want."

Another clap of lightening made Starling squeeze her eyes shut. She held her elbows and took a deep breath, steadying herself.

"Clarice?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's conclude elsewhere. In fact, let's take a short break. Would you like some tea? Or perhaps a martini?"

"A martini, please."

"Excellent, I'll join you," he said, standing. He offered her a hand. She looked at it for a moment as though he'd presented her with a dead animal. She blinked, and the expression was gone. She took it and stood. As she followed him back down the corridor, the sounds of the house creaking seemed an appropriate noise for how she felt. The wind had picked up.

He left her in the drawing room, and joined her a few minutes later holding two glasses. She stood in front of the fireplace, and he handed her one.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

After she'd taken two sips, he migrated to the sofa and sat down. She stood at the side of the fireplace, as though using the heavy stones of the hearth to anchor herself. She didn't entirely trust her legs.

She tried to imagine these 'episodes', perhaps in order to prepare or test herself, and her knees buckled. She steadied herself on the mantle, and Dr. Lecter started to stand and she halted him with a raised hand.

"I'm fine."

He settled down. "Why don't you have a seat," he suggested. He patted the seat next to him.

Starling looked at the seat next to him, but seemed far, far away. She was coming to grips with the fact that beneath the shock and disgust of what they had been discussing, what she was considering, that she felt very hot and very…tingly. She knew she was red, she could feel the blood in her face. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips. She came forward and stopped, glanced at the chair she'd sat in, before.

"Clarice, I won't insist you sit here, there or anywhere. I only suggest you consider taking _this_ seat, because if we are to even consider the agreement, it might be prudent for you to test your ability to be near me, let alone grant me permission to touch you. Let alone penetrate you."

She looked at him. He smiled and patted the seat, again. "This is a break," he reminded her. "I will not push you. That includes touching you. If you choose to sit here, I will not touch you."

She nodded absently and sat down tentatively, next to him. She folded her hands in her lap and glanced at his, before quickly looking away. She could feel his warmth and smell his clean clothes and cologne. Dr. Lecter watched her bring the drink to her lips, and his pupils dilated.

Dr. Lecter could never have dreamed up such an opportunity. No, it had come from _her_. _Ummmm_. Clarice Starling, then. She was amusing, to be certain. She had proven to be more than amusing, in fact. She'd been engaging, even challenging at times. He wouldn't dare to imagine what she was becoming.

Of course, he found her attractive. That did not take any special bond or even keen eyesight. Clarice Starling was, by nearly any man's measure, quite beautiful. He'd appreciated it from an aesthetic point, like art. But she wasn't a sculpture. She was warm, he could feel the warmth of her arm near him, now. Not an arm frozen in marble or stone; an arm of flesh that can prickle at a well-placed touch, an arm that could push away or pull in. She had arms that could be thrown around a neck, arms that could hold.

Clarice Starling, then. Would this compromise what she was becoming in any disagreeable way? No, he decided. She was strong. Resilient. _Regenerating_. She would recover. She would recover again and again and again…But even someone so resilient would break, eventually. Break and stay broken. But then, she could be put back together in his preference. Then, the predator would be acclimated. Then, the predator posed no threat. Still, he considered, it was prudent to never assume, never fall victim to hypotheticals.

When she looked at him, her eyes were full of wonder, anxiety, animal lust and spirited fascination. There was also a level of disgust, but he wasn't sure if it was toward him or herself; it was likely both. He smiled at her. She didn't exactly smile back. An uncomfortable twitch at the corner of her mouth, before she looked away again, and brought her drink to her mouth.

Was it possible for him to long for her? Was it possible that he _had_ longed for her? In spite of not indulging in pointless fantasies, could he still, on some unconscious level, have ached for her? He thought of the odd little prompts he'd experienced during his time away. In the passing of a smooth surface, _touch it_. In handling edibles rich in texture and color, _taste it._ In feeding her pink, waiting mouth…_ahhhh. _Now _that_ was interesting. He considered the alacrity with which he'd latched onto the idea of playing with both her body and mind. The wrong questions indeed…

Dr. Lecter wondered if she understood, on any level, that some deep part of her wanted this. It would never have occurred to her in such a subliminal way if some secret room inside had not cried out for it. He'd heard that little cry, and came running. On some level, they were both abandoning reason for appetite.

_Then it is a night of revelation for us, both_.

There was nothing wrong with that. He looked at the shape of her shoulder. Light, but freckled from sun exposure. What of those places that had not been exposed? Were those places like velvet, was the skin there like milk? He leaned back a fraction in his seat and looked at the slope of her chin into her chest, where light rarely touches. The skin there, so delicate, _touch it._

Dr. Lecter could neglect those prompts as easily as satiate them. He had endless patience. Should their agreement come to fruition, she would discover that, herself. She would discover much, about both of them.

Medical anomalies had always intrigued Dr. Lecter. Some were more fascinating than others, but a regenerating hymen interested him beyond the symmetry of it, where her psychology was concerned. It intrigued him, medically. Many people believe the myth that hymens grow back after some period of neglect, seven years, or the like. Not true. In fact, the idea that they would or could is absurd. A hymen is nothing more than a delicate piece of tissue; what is left after a hole is made. Humans do not re-grow parts of themselves, like lizards' tails. But it was not completely unheard of, a regenerating hymen. He had only ever heard of it happening once, to a Taiwanese woman. Like Clarice, she had had an imperforated hymen, and had had to have it surgically removed. In her case, it persisted beyond her marriage bed and even her pregnancy. In any case…very rare, indeed.

Dr. Lecter decided at once, that should this night be the first in their transaction, he would make it purely about pleasure. It could be misleading to her perhaps, but he felt it was critical to establish between them a sense of pure sensuality. It would aid in the grander design. Her voice brought him back.

"Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes, Clarice?"

"I think I'm ready to continue, now."

"Alright, then. I'll take that," he said, taking her empty glass. When he had stood:

"Clarice, I think it would be economical for us to conclude the negotiation upstairs. Not your bedroom. Just down the hall, on the left. I'll meet you there in a moment." And then, before she could respond, "go ahead and make yourself comfortable. It's getting late."

With that, he was gone. Starling's heart quivered and it seemed to drop down to her middle, vibrate her in lower half, and then shoot back up again. She walked to the stairs on shaky legs, in a daze.

Dr. Lecter took his time cleaning up after dinner, blowing out the candles in the conservatory and turning out the other lights. Once everything was done, he headed upstairs, not entirely sure what he would find. He glanced into the open door of the guest room, found it empty and continued down the hall. The door was open and he stood at the threshold, for a moment. She was sitting in the club chair in the far right corner of the room, by the window. She wore cotton pajamas, consisting of relatively conservative shorts and a button up shirt with blue trim. She had her bare feet tucked beneath her and she watched him with animal tensity. He could not help but notice how rather nubile she appeared, in her pajamas and disorganized, titian hair. Her eyes were big and anticipative. _Deceptively_ innocent.

He walked into the bedroom and shrugged off his jacket. When he had draped it over his arm, he looked at her, again. "Give me a moment."

She nodded.

She watched him head into the closet while loosening his tie. When he came out of the closet, he still wore socks, pants, and the dress shirt. It was still tucked in, but he came further into the room to regard her as he rolled up his sleeves.

"Let's begin with a summary of what we've covered. How does that sound?"

"Fine."

"The agreement, under the current terms, is as follows: One night a year, you will spend one night with me as your lover. You will submit to however I choose to fill that time, which includes the breaking of your hymen, and will _not_ include any injury, unsanitary, dangerous or derogatory elements. During the length of the agreement, you will remain celibate, and I will not take a life. During the agreement, you will not pursue me, or aid in my capture or demise. We will not engage in sex, including fellacio. We will take this agreement to our graves. At the end of the agreement, we will not attempt injury. I will not kill you, and you will use nothing of what you've learned to aid in my capture or demise. We will resume our lives."

Starling waited a few moments, to make sure he was finished. "Yes, that…that sums it up."

"Have you any questions or concerns about any of that?"

"Well, I think I'd like to know what you consider derogatory."

"I won't make you eat out of a dog bowl, I will not call you a worthless slut. I will not blaspheme you, Clarice."

She nodded, with her eyebrows raised. She was surprised by her satisfaction with his answer. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Any other questions about anything within the summary?"

She thought carefully for awhile. "No."

"Now, at the end of each tryst, I suggest we give ourselves the opportunity to decide if we wish to amend it."

"Fine. I want to make a new term."

"Go ahead."

"During the time in between our episodes, in everyday life, I do not want to see you. I don't want you following me around, and I don't want to know where you are."

"Done. However, I'd like to add a modification. I would like the freedom to write to you. You do not have to write back, although it would please me if you did. I will leave that to your own discretion."

Starling sighed, and thought for a moment. "Alright. But understand that I live with someone. If she's around when I receive a letter from you, I'll have to turn it in. And if I turn it in, then it's also a possibility that I'll be put on your case, mostly if any other evidence of your misbehavior showed up. And seeing as how it would become awfully difficult for me to not aid in your capture or demise while on your case, I highly suggest you stick to your end of the bargain, too. Right now, you're a media boogie man, but not much more. Nobody's actively searching for you. But anything, and I mean _anything_ that could give the Bureau a lead will be seized upon, so not even a scuffle. So I also suggest that you make an attempt to lay low. Your extravagant preferences could be your dorsal fin cutting the water's surface. And once the catch-me, fuck-me party starts, I don't know how I can stay out of it without becoming suspicious, myself. And if they know you write to me, if they think you're following me around or that the monster's in love, they'll use me."

"I understand, and will keep that in mind in the content. There will be nothing incriminating. As far as my dorsal fin, that's my concern. I will hold up my end of the bargain so long as you do. I don't foresee you being put in a position in which your job contradicts our agreement beyond burning the letters instead of turning them in."

"And lying about all of this. And continuing to lie about it."

"Oh, Clarice. If you ran home to tell on me, it would do no good at all and you know it. You would be criticized for some imagined flaw in technique or allegiance, and I would be gone before they'd finished questioning you. And not even _you_ would ever, ever find me. You know it's true."

"Hell, I don't know about never."

Dr. Lecter smiled. "Do it and see what happens."

"I didn't say I would."

"Good. So are we done with that?"

"Fine. Done."

"That brings us to that last pin. It's time to take it out. How long?"

Starling tried to imagine how she could possibly have any real relationship without her celibacy eventually coming up and unraveling any fledgling opportunity. What if she met someone she really liked? What if she fell in love?

_What if I don't…_

Another question not related to this time and place. She refocused. How many years of her youth was she willing to give to this man for the sake of saving lives? How many should she be _willing_ to give?

"How about this, Clarice," Dr. Lecter said suddenly, and she broke from her thoughts to look at him. He was leaning easily against the foot of the bed.

Dr. Lecter by the bed…_He told me to get comfortable and meet him in his bedroom. He called it economical._

"Why don't I make an offer, and we'll go from there?"

_He removed his jacket, tie, belt and shoes. He rolled up his sleeves while he looked right at me. Why did he roll up his sleeves?_

She swallowed. "Alright."

"Alright," he said, bowing his head. When he looked at her again, his lips were pursed for a moment. Then he said:

"Fifteen years."

"Fifteen!"

"Yes."

"No."

"What is your counter offer?"

"Uh, two," she ran her hand through her hair. Important to low-ball a bit.

"Two years, Clarice? Two years of a world without me in it? You can do better than that. Twelve."

Two minutes passed. Starling's body was beginning to prepare for something it had apparently decided was imminent. Something that she hadn't known she could possibly want. Clarice Starling could feel her pulse in her clitoris, anus and vagina.

"Four," she said.

"Eleven."

She gave him a look of exhaustion and exhilaration. It was the strangest contradiction, and Dr. Lecter ate it up, slick as a reptile slurps up a flailing insect, spastic little wings and all.

"Five," she said, and wondered if he could smell her, if he could smell that her body was betraying her again, smell that her body was preparing itself for _him_.

"Ten."

Their gazes were locked as though neither could look away. There was a tension beneath Dr. Lecter's posture she hadn't seen before. As though he might lurch forward at any moment. They stayed that way for nearly ten minutes, the only sound their breathing and the howling wind and rain.

"Seven years," said Starling, "that's my limit."

"Done."

They didn't move. Starling was unsure of whether she had just sealed her fate. It seemed as though it had happened as fast as a whip-crack.

At length, Dr. Lecter came forward, and Starling held her breath. He stopped just in front of her and extended his arm, offering his hand.

"Shall we shake on it? I can draw up a contract and we can sign it, if you like. It might be a good idea, just to make sure neither of us forgets what we owe the other. Doubt it'll hold up in court, though," he said, his voice suddenly taking on a bemused and flirtatious tone. Starling thought she could hear her blood humming, as on their first meeting.

"A handshake," she said, looking at his hand.

"We'll have to trust one another. Can you do that?"

She looked up at him. "Can you?"

"I asked first," he said, smiling.

Starling remembered to breath. "Is this happening? Is it real…"

Dr. Lecter didn't think the question was directed at him, but he answered, anyway. "As real as anything else can claim to be."

When she looked up at him, he gave her another smile, warm and gentle. "Whatever you choose to be real to you is what is real, Clarice. No one chooses for you. If you choose to see these trysts as existing in a place outside of time, a dream within in a dream, then your verdict makes it so. Your life and the choices you make are subject to your judgment and yours alone."

He watched her, and it seemed to give her mind a place to go. Her shoulders lowered the slightest bit.

She said nothing, but looked at his hand. Steady as the stony hearth. She reached out to it tentatively, like a child might reach out to a horse, for the first time. Their fingers touched, and her muscle memory seemed to take over. Her fingers slid into his palm and draped along his wrist. He waited a moment, before folding his own fingers over her hand, the slope of their thumbs locking. Her eyes rose and sucked back into his consuming gaze.

"Deal," he said.

"Deal," she whispered.


	5. Chapter 5

Circle 2: Lust

_The carnal malefactors were condemned who reason subjugate to appetite…_

A window was cracked open somewhere in the house. There was a building noise which came and went; the wind snaking inside an unseen rift whistled hoarsely. The walls of the structure groaned and creaked, but held. Outside, a crane chanting its lays, throttled in the disavowing air. Trees leaning, held fast to their roots but lost a branch or two in the night.

Inside, Starling sits with her feet tucked underneath her, her hand in Hannibal Lecter's, waiting. In time, he bent his head and kissed where her fingers met at the knuckle. His eyes drew up to hers. Standing up straight he took a step back and indicated she too, should stand. She unfurled her legs and looked down at her knees where they met and back up at him. She didn't know if she could stand.

Clarice Starling could withstand an attack and endless ridicule. She could withstand ingratitude and boredom. She was not afraid of pain. She could even withstand that which she _did_ fear, which was by and large, the threat of failure. But this—this was freakish. She had no way to prepare for something like this, she had no training or morsels of wisdom. Her thoughts spilled into her feelings, overflowing. Her feelings spilled into her body, overflowing. Her body wept without tears, her knees trembled. She watched Dr. Lecter let go of her hand and bend forward. An arm went around her shoulders, another beneath her unstable knees, and he picked her up.

He stood like that for longer than necessary, perhaps to give the moment time to infuse the night. Starling was both grateful and disgraced. She was not a child. She didn't like the idea of him thinking of her as one, knowing at once he did not. It didn't change the associations she had with the imagery of a bridal carry. It was terrifically uncomfortable and nearly pornographic in its connotations.

She expected him to carry her to the bed, but instead, he pivoted and claimed her seat. She found that being curled up in his lap was much worse. For an instant, she cursed him from the depths of her soul. _Hit me, pull me off into some dark corner by the hair, _she demanded. _Strangle me, bite me. Not this. _Could she have dreamed up a more wildly inappropriate image or experience than sitting in Hannibal Lecter's lap? _No_, she decided. She could not.

When she looked at him then, she understood his intentions, at once. He was going to make it uncomfortable. That was going to be a part of it. He was going to accentuate every delusion represented in sexuality between man and woman, and their personal history and relationship would be no exception. He was going to make it painful. Yes…he would do that.

He draped a hand over her bare knee and took some reading in her eyes. Another hand smoothed her hair, tucked a few strands behind her ear. In addition to making her terribly uncomfortable and therefore painfully aware of her own perceptions regarding sexuality, he felt it was important to proceed slowly where touch and intimacy were concerned. The following hours would serve to be both sadistic and merciful. Her hands held one another in her lap. It was time to put that to an end to that. No more concealing; no protection, here. Not anymore, not for tonight.

"Move your hands to your sides."

Her eyebrows wrinkled, but she did so, slowly.

"For the remainder of the night, you will not cover yourself. Not even after you have been disrobed."

She felt faint in the minutes following his commands, and she said nothing. At length:

"Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"Tell me."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

She could not look at him. She would not look at him. In that moment, she despised him.

"Yes, Dr. Lecter."

"You forgot, I thought you might. I am not a doctor, tonight. "

She managed to look at him, to be sure she understood.

"Yes, Hannibal," she said, feeling as though she'd just blasphemed in a church. His expression did not change when she called him by his first name, but his next inhale was sharper. Then he went on:

"Answer this question with perfect honesty: Does the traditional dynamic between man and woman, that is to say, the dynamic in which a woman is submissive to a man, disturb you? Does it disturb you deeply?"

"It would bother me more if was not so obsolete."

"But it does bother you. Even conceptually..?"

"Yes, Hannibal."

"I thought as much. Would you call that a delusion? Or an _ill_usion?"

"My distaste for it or the dynamic itself?"

"The answer will be the same for both."

"I would say it more closely resembles a delusion. Illusion can be termed to be external, whereas delusion can be called internal. Delusion is a fixed belief, which can be either false or fanciful. Illusion is only a distortion of the senses. While illusion is a physical phenomenon, delusion pertains to the mental aspect."

"What do I like to destroy, Clarice?"

"Delusions."

"Are delusions easily destroyed?"

"Not usually."

"Will it be painful?"

"Yes, Hannibal."

"Can you better understand how such a thing could serve as a fitting substitute for my other pastime?"

"Yes. Hannibal."

"There are many delusions I have at my mercy. This one will be an ongoing one, I think. Even with only seven sessions spread across seven years, I think I can make some good headway."

"Headway in what regard?" Starling asked, perplexed and on the verge of being irritable.

"The idea of compliance bothers you when represented in sexuality, and you necessarily attach the idea to social constructs surrounding femininity. That niggling does nothing to assist your ascent in this world. Anything which has the power to upset you is mental dross. If I could have it my way, Clarice, I would rid you of every petty sadness and loathing. I would trim you like a wild evergreen until you took the shape of someone who can never be bothered, never circumvented, and never, ever hurt."

They sat for awhile, their breathing very quiet. When Starling would find the courage to look at him, he would look at her with his head to the side. He stroked her legs slowly with a flat palm as the minutes passed. And then:

"Tell me what you're feeling."

"Apprehension. Anger," she paused, summoning more courage to be honest. When he took the time to drag the truth out of her, it was always more painful. "…and arousal."

"Are you more angry that you're in this position, or more angry that this position has caused arousal?"

"I think they're at a stalemate."

He laughed quietly, and gave her knee an affectionate pat. "You manage yourself better than most. I have faith in you. There's nothing wrong with how you feel, you know. You should not hate yourself or worry about for feeling attraction to me. The body does not reason. Your body doesn't weigh my masculinity against my deeds. It only reacts."

He did not mention the little room that cried out to him, the Clarice Starling not given a voice that longed for him on both a mental and emotional level. How does the mind navigate to a place the higher brain will not go? Convincing the body is one way. The other was to use the beliefs of the higher brain against it. He couldn't have done a better job, himself. It would not be the only thing he chose not to mention, during the course of the night. He went on:

"It is interesting though, to note now, that you're earlier assessment of lacking progress in life was due to a sense of being unresponsive. A meaningful parallel, Clarice?"

"I don't know that I'd say a bodily response to your maleness is the antithetical of feeling listless in life. My body is responsive. It's my mind, even my heart that is quiet. Such a vast quiet," she murmured the last words, focusing on a freckle above her knee.

"Metaphysicists believe that change of the mind often begins with the body. They're not wrong. The body is a good place to start; it's easier to change than the mind."

"But it's already responsive," she argued. " When I'm hungry, I eat. When I'm tired, I sleep. When I'm aroused, I…" she finished the insinuation with a gesture of her hand.

"Yes," he said with a kindly smile," but do you indulge? You meet the basic requirements, Clarice. There's so much more."

She looked at him, looked into his eyes, glanced at his mouth. He had nice lips, she noted. She looked at his chin, his nose, his ears. The shape of his eyebrows, the slope of his cupid's bow. He was very close now, very real. She could see the delicate veins beneath his skin around his eyelids. He did not quite have stubble, having likely shaved that morning. His skin was smooth and light. His lips curved into a grin while she was looking at them, and a thumb stroked the underside of her knee. She looked at his eyes, and he said:

"I have so many things to show you."

* * *

Ardelia Mapp, connoisseur of coupons, returned to her car in the grocery store parking lot mid-afternoon on Sunday. She cursed under her breath when her phone went off with her hands full. When she was in the privacy of her car, she answered.

"Mapp." The phone was wedged between her shoulder and cheek while she finished arranging the bags in the passenger's seat.

"Hey, it's me," came the answer.

"Winston. What's up?"

"We spotted Conway."

"No, shit. Where are you?"

"We're on him, now. Get this; he's driving Leo's car."

Ardelia took the phone in her hand and started the car. "Leo, the head cook? Leo who was just murdered?"

"Yep. Wanna get your ass down here? We're in Southern Heights-"

"-Oh, goddamn Southern heights."

He chuckled. "Listen, I've got damn groceries in my car and it's hot out. I'll come out if you feel like you need me, but-"

"No, no. Get your frozen peas in the freezer, Mapp. "

"I'll come and talk to him once he's in custody. I think he'll talk to me. I don't think he'll fight you, either."

"You don't have to do it, today. You'll have plenty of time before his initial court appearance."

"I doubt he killed Leo, to be honest. But I guess we'll find out."

"I guess so. Hey, take it easy."

"Call me back after the arrest. You sure you don't want me? You're worth more than peas, you know."

"That's sweet. Really, I just wanted to keep you in the loop."

"Thanks. Talk soon."

"Bye."

A few minutes later, she was on her street. "Well, well, well," she said under her breath, seeing Starling's Pinto out front. She found Starling on Mapp's side of the duplex, nursing a bottle of water. She looked up when she came in.

"Hey," Starling said. "Need a hand?" Before Mapp could answer, she was on her feet.

"Thanks. Where'd you go?"

"Stayed in a rented house up on the Chesapeake."

"Sounds nice."

When they were finished putting the groceries away, Starling slunk into one of the ladder back chairs, and rolled her neck.

"Did you not sleep good, or something?" Mapp wondered. "Bed too squishy?"

"No, no. I slept fine. I slept _late_."

"Clarice Starling? Slept late?"

"Well, I don't think I actually fell asleep until early morning. Five, maybe."

Mapp wasn't a psychological profiler, but she could see something was different. Not wrong, but definitely different. "Who was he?"

"Someone…" Starling said, evasively. She found one corner of her mouth drawing up, and tried to lean her cheek onto her hand, to cover it.

"Well, now! About damn time! Was he pretty?"

"He made me feel good."

"Ummm-hmmm!"

"Stop it. _Really_. How was your weekend?"

Mapp shrugged. "Not as good as yours, I can tell you. Winston just called me, though. They found Conway."

"Well, that's good. Not that I'm surprised."

"Yeah, well. It's a start. We'll question him. I think he'll cooperate."

"Think he'll flop?"

"Probably."

"You hungry?"

Ardelia stretched and yawned, nodding.

"I know you just got groceries, but do you maybe want to go out? I don't want to be still."

Mapp shrugged. "Where'd you have in mind?"

"I don't know…I just don't think I want to be sitting around here, all evening."

"Well, look at you. What did I say? What'd I say, Starling?"

"I'm not gonna say it."

"Say it, girl."

"Nuh-uh."

Mapp laughed. "Say it, and we'll go wherever you want, and I'll pay."

"I needed to get laid."

"Hell yes. Yes, you did. And now I'm going to change. You should too, Raggedy Ann."

Starling let some of the water from her bottle trickle into her hand and flicked it at Mapp.

"Oooh. Oh, she's angry Raggedy Ann, look out!"

At dinner, Starling was surprised at how normal it all felt. And, she could not deny that some feral thing inside her liked it; liked the ache inside, knowing she'd been torn by him, and liked that no one knew. She did her best to not over-analyze that. Much later, it became more difficult. But it was a long night for the two women, longer than they'd spent together since training. When, after dinner, Starling had glanced at Mapp and said, "Wanna get a night cap?" Mapp was both surprised and delighted. She did not question it. Sometimes a good ride did that to you. It depended on where you were coming from, she reflected. If you were running around a mile a minute, it slowed you down. If you were in a slump, it could wake you up. It was like a drug, that way.

At the bar, Mapp was all the more surprised, when she found Starling chatting it up with someone. It was a relief, in a way. A lot of the time, Mapp would find someone interesting to 'talk to', and she always felt a little like she was abandoning her friend. Starling never made her feel that way, but this was both unprecedented and alleviating. She wasn't surprised when Starling didn't take the poor guy home. Neither of them found anybody interesting enough for that, so when they arrived home alone, they found themselves in the kitchen, as always. Starling was rooting around in the cabinet while Mapp was stripping off her clothes across the hallway in the laundry room. They were tipsy.

"What're you lookin' for, girl?"

"Elixir!" she called back.

"What?" Mapp came back into the kitchen wearing her shorts and FBI t-shirt. Feeling the floor tiles against her bare feet, Mapp decided it must be cleaned in the near future.

"Ah! Found it."

"What'd you find, Raggedy Ann?"

"Hey. Raggedy Ann wore fucking kitten heels, tonight. Give her a break." She was holding a bottle of Añejo Tequila.

"Oh, okay. I see how it's gonna be. Lucky for you, I went to the store."

"Then you won't mind slicing the limes."

By eleven, _Night Time is the Right Time_ was blasting from the stereo, and they were singing into utensils and dancing around the kitchen table. By midnight, they were sitting at the kitchen table, telling jokes. It was half past when the real talking started.

"But really," Starling was saying," what guy do you know has this problem. I've just gotten back from New York, it had been dicey, you know? I was still edgy. And that fucking jerk Paul Krendler calls, asks me out. Said he could be here in half an hour."

"What? He's married!"

"No kidding. I think he was drunk. He's my boss, Ardelia. He's our boss. He's my boss, and I was put in a position where I had to tell my boss to go home to his wife."

"Jesus."

"And at the same time, if I say anything, am I complaining? Do I have any right to complain? I mean…hell, Ardelia. At least I'm here. It's hard to know who you are when you come from poor-white background. When you don't consider what they had to start off with, that they made do with the damn 40 acres and a muddy mule. Nobody tells you that, you just have to find a way to see it."

"No different. You more than made do. We both did. Listen, you do what you _can_ do. And somebody like Paul has to live with himself; he's responsible for him, not you. Not you."

"But here's the thing, Ardelia. What does it make me if I can't play nice with somebody like him? Does it make me a prideful chit, or does it make me righteous? When do we care? When do we not care? When do we be still?"

"I don't know. And you know what? That's okay, sometimes. You _do_ what you _can_ do, Starling. Right now, what we both _need_ to do, is go the fuck to sleep."

"You're right. Raggedy Ann has to be up in the morning at six."

Mapp laughed. "Well, I'll be right there with you." Mapp looked at her in the eyes. "I mean it."

Starling smiled. When she lay down in bed that night, she only tortured herself for an hour before drifting away. She couldn't remember her dreams in the morning, but woke up as edgy as the wintery night that Paul Krendler called her.

She didn't talk to Crawford much. He'd become more and more anemic in both an emotional and bodily sense. When she did see him, he'd give the cursory nod, and she would always reciprocate. Once, she'd gone to his office briefly, and he'd had something wet hanging from his nose. He offered her an Alka-Seltzer. The pity she felt for Crawford frightened her more than anything ever had. She never pushed or prodded him about Behavioral Science. The niggling in the back of her mind that told her she was never getting into Behavioral Science was ignored in favor of faith. There had been times before that she had felt like Crawford had forgotten about her, but then he hadn't, after all.

Since being sworn in, Starling had been a tech Agent. Near the end of summer, she had started on an ongoing case. She had been given a specific job, and it had taken her over a week just to get caught up, which involved hours upon hours of going through voluminous chat logs on an informant's computer. It started out as grueling work, but there had been amusing moments. "Script kiddie"—no hacker wants to hear the term used to describe them. Anyone with modest computer skills can cause modest havoc using other people's code fragments, scanners, and infiltration tools, but this is little more than knowing how to point a gun in the right direction and pull the trigger. It lacks _art_. True hacking requires a deep knowledge of computer and network security, an ability to navigate around obstacles, and the willingness to be careful enough to always hide one's tracks. The script kiddies might be easy targets for the feds, but the true hackers? Shadows are their home. The Anon-affiliated hackers who broke into a private intelligence company to release e-mails and steal credit cards certainly didn't think they were script kiddies. In an Internet Relay Chat, just after the June hack, one of the Statfor hackers, going by the alias sup_g, spoke to an unidentified chat room member about the accomplishment. It was a muggy Tuesday night, and there was no moon outside for either participant.

CW-1: but this stratfor shit was bigger shit than old shits

CW-1: at least it deserves no critics

sup_g: oh yes

sup_g: notice no one is throwing around script kiddie comments...

CW-1: this time was classy

CW-1: and thats perfect

CW-1: we produced a cool video

CW-1: we announced luzxmas

CW-1: we hacked big shit

CW-1: we donated by 1000000...

CW-1: and we destroyed a big serious intel corp

CW-1: actually just a lil bunch of ppl thinks shit on this

CW-1: like 3

sup_g: they are just mad because of the sheer amount of

high profile people in this

A few months later, not long after Halloween, sup_g talked to the same unidentified member about some 30,000 credit card numbers that had been taken from the company. His interlocutor, CW-1, engaged in a bit of gallows humor about what might happen should they all get caught.

CW-1: hows the news looking?

sup_g: I been going hard all night

CW-1: I heard we're all over the news papers

CW-1: you mother fuckers are going to get me raded

CW-1: HAHAHAAHA

sup_g: we put out 30k cards, the stratfor dump, and another statement

sup_g: dude it's big..

CW-1: if I get raided anarchaos your job is to cause havok in my honor

CW-1: 3

sup_g: it shall be so

Starling sat back in the swivel chair, a small smile on one side of her mouth. The raid had, in fact, already happened. CW-1 was "Sibu," a top Anon hacker who was, in real life, an unemployed 28-year old living in D.C. public housing. His sixth-floor apartment had been visited by the FBI in June, and Sibu had been arrested and turned. For months, he had been an FBI informant, watched 24 hours a day by an agent using a government issued laptop that logged everything he did. That agent was Clarice Starling. She found it grimly humorous to tease sup_g with threats of arrest, but they were also using Sibu's chat for a more serious purpose—correlating the many names of sup_g.

When Starling wasn't intentionally misspelling words, inciting sup_g to brag and blunder, or playing with him when she got bored, she was buried under a mountain of paperwork. When she got home that night she crashed onto the couch, rolling onto her side.

She had stopped trying to not think about Hannibal Lecter. She traced a pinky along the suede, made a happy face, gave it a nose, and wiped it away. She made a little strawberry and felt a jolt go through her. Somehow, amongst all of the things that had transpired in the course of that surreal night, the most disturbing parts were what happened in between.

There were the parts where he touched her, made sounds come out of her she didn't recognize. Sometimes, she'd remember those sounds and turn red all alone in her bedroom. Knowing he'd heard them too, knowing he remembered and could think of it any time he liked. Those things were hard. But the other things. . .

They had stayed up nearly as long as it took for the sun to rise. He'd touched her, he'd tasted her…but they needed breaks, _let's have a break_, he'd say. And they'd wander around the house, maybe—end up in some dark room, safe inside from the raging storm. Or they'd stay where they were and they'd talk, but they hadn't just talked. They'd smiled, they'd laughed. He'd made her laugh. She thought of their second 'break', when they were both sitting on top of the dining room table, facing one another with a bowl of strawberries between them. Starling sat cross-legged, and Dr. Lecter had an elbow propped up on his knee. Starling was red from laughing. She had said:

"One more. One more!" It was as though the madness of what they were doing had lost its effect and she was desensitized. She felt easy now, occupying this intimate space with him, talking to him and even laughing.

"Alright," he said, taking a sip of his drink. Dr. Lecter had been telling her stories from his time as a surgeon, choosing the ones he seldom had the chance to tell, the ones he knew she'd like. "One more. I had performed surgery on a very elegant, middle aged woman. Very cut class accent. There was an anesthetic that we used which sometimes induced some hallucinations and either going under or coming out of anesthesia, I heard some amusing things. "This woman was in recovery just coming out of the anesthetic. The team was around waiting for her to wake up and gag a little on the tube in her throat, so that we knew it was time to remove it. She gagged, we removed the tube, and then she smacked her lips and said loudly, in her incredible accent:

'That's the best bit of cock I have had in years!'"

Starling nearly lost it. Some distant part of her watched, watched her laughing, unsure of whether it was okay, unsure of a growing number of things. He'd made her laugh until her face was red, she'd even choked on her drink. Some of it came out of her nose, and he'd gone to get a tea towel. Afterwards, another…session…had started. Her legs over the side of the table, his head between them, his dark head…

They'd talked briefly about Dr. Chilton. Talked about his little trains and his single ticket to _Holiday on Ice_. She'd told him about piercing him with her knowledge of his sad little life, how she'd used it to get around him. That's when he'd said, "Come here," and took her in his arms, and _(God!)_ how she had wanted him to. They stood in loosely tied robes at the bottom of the stairs, the whistling wind low and hoarse, their eyes reflecting light from the candelabra flickering on the foyer table. "Do you want some strawberries, little doxy?" he'd asked her, with his fingertips beneath her chin as they looked at one another, looked deep.

It wasn't until she reflected upon these dreamy memories that she'd realized that throughout all of his fondling and penetrating that he had never kissed her mouth. She hadn't thought of it, at the time. Now, she wondered about it, if it hadn't occurred to him either, or if it was calculated, in some way. A part of her didn't care, a part of her was hurt, and a part of her was relieved.

It felt like a dream of a dream. And that was how she treated it. When she thought of it, when she began to feel sick with guilt, she would shake it off and say to herself, it was a dream, a dream, a dream…

A part of her did not want it to be a dream.

When Mapp got home, they washed vegetables and made dinner. Starling had brought wine, and they each had a glass, when reconvening in the living room wearing pajamas. Starling was wearing the same pair she'd worn with Lecter. The terrible combination of sick guilt and perverse pleasure somehow got her through each day. She mused, sitting with her bare feet up on the coffee table, that at least now she was responsive. At least now she was feeling _something_.

"How are things going with Conway?" she asked. Mapp was holding her glass of cheap wine up to the light, sardonically twirling it with a look of mock contempt. She shrugged.

"Good, actually. Very well."

"So he flipped?"

"Like a hot cake. He's not bad, really. Just didn't know another way to be. Eight years old and living in streets, cars, empty buildings. The lifestyle gradually led up to it. From this place, to another place, through institutions." "Could have been me." "Hell, could have been me," shrugged Mapp. "All he'd known was the drug world and institutions. It was his normal. I think he's just now beginning to see the true horror and abandonment of it all, now that he got away from it. " "It doesn't always work," Starling murmured. "Hmm?" "The system. Institutions, the rules. They've worked for me, they've worked so far. But what if you can't count on them? What then?" "When there's nothing left, what's left?" Mapp wondered. "Me," said Starling, looking at Mapp with her level prairie gaze. "Damn straight."

* * *

Notes:

The part about Stratfor hackers is based on a true story, as the Waco siege of the first Chapter (which I forgot to mention).

Dr. Lecter's surgical story is also a true story (not mine).

I realize that compared to the last couple of chapters, this may have been boring, but I promise that in between their little trysts, I will provide tasty morsels, via their memories. Also, I have an X-rated version of this story. I am considering publishing it on AO3, in case anyone is interested in that aspect of the story. If you're on board with that idea, don't hesitate to let me know, because the only reason I haven't is laziness. Prompts get me off my ass. Either way, I wish to keep this relatively clean on this platform. Honestly, I'd prefer to either write full-on, nasty smut or just slightly suggestive. I don't like playing around in between those two things, it feels like work. Anyway, the next chapter will be coming very shortly (as in this weekend).

One more thing: I just wanted to thank everyone who comments, and a special shout out to anonymous guests, because I cannot PM you. Whoever you are, thank you so much for your support and wonderful comments. Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think, good or bad. I really appreciate the feedback, and I love that one of you said you've refreshed the page looking for an update, because I have SO done that! Very flattering. Thank you, thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

Moveable feast. They were the words on Dr. Lecter's mind on the days following Starling's departure. Their annual meetings were not a moveable feast, but it was never to be very far from one. Easter, for seven years, would dance around their trysts-possibly, though unlikely, to converge on Easter itself. It had come late this year, with Good Friday falling on the evening he'd taken her and initiated this…covenant. He had only ever made one other, but he did not care to think of that, now. He had arrived in Austria just in time to watch the tentative orgy of the senses which follows the end of Lent. Always an excellent excuse for locals to tuck into their brunch of cold cuts and sweet breads. He was not entirely disappointed to have missed Easter in Vienna, though he would have liked to see the Easter fires lit on the night before. He enjoyed knowing the fires had been lit, with or without him, while he had torn Clarice Starling.

Better than the willow twigs, pagan fires and painted eggs was the_ OsterKlang_ series of concerts and operas at the _Theater an der Wien_. It was a musical highlight he would not be missing. On the evening of his arrival, he walked with an umbrella tucked into his underarm and his top coat unbuttoned. It was cold, but not too cold for a walk, nor had it begun to rain. Taking Freyung to the Farmer's Market, he passed a mural in front of the Scots Church depicting the story of the Biblical Easter. Christ in blue and red, hunches under the weight of the cross, the traditional geometric halo around his and Mary's head. He pauses, looking at it. Above the wall is the church spire looming, the face of the church obscured by the height of the wall, which is draped in garlands. His own shadow, long in the low, equinoctial sun, appears to loom behind Christ amongst the capering goats, crags and brush. He walked on.

He had yet to acquire a permanent residence, or even an acceptable temporary one. He had booked two weeks at a B&B next to the Scots Church; in the event that Starling broke her word upon returning to the real world, he did not want to be detected by…_what had she called it? Ah, yes. My dorsal fin. My ornery poet. My little doxy. _ He turned away from the images his mind offered him, memories of all five senses. He would not think of that, now. He would not indulge until he felt reasonably free from danger. That would take some time. So this was to be his Lent. Though it would certainly not be lasting for forty days, _No!_ His mind seemed to hiss. Not that long, but not now. To the market.

In the following weeks, he made many outings, but was careful not to exceed the limits of a middle-class tourist, and paid in cash often. He frequented the excellent meat and cheese shop Schober, a mere nine minute walk from his quarters. Sometimes he would go to the public library to use their computers, but the interior and the quality of their selection was atrocious. He refused to sit in the ghastly canary chairs, and would stand instead, his head bent. He often had to go quickly then to the Austrian National Library in order to purge himself of the public library.

It is the largest library in Austria, boasting more than twelve million items in its various collections and four museums. Its architecture and aesthetic is very palatable to Dr. Lecter. In the Prunksaal, the central structure, Dr. Lecter enjoys walking among the monastery books and marble sculptures. The hall is divided after the original list of the books; by 'good' and 'evil'. He finds himself often in the center of the hall, gazing at the frescoed walls and dome. Emperor Charles VI glances at him over his marble shoulder as though in warning, one stiff arm slightly raised as though to say, 'Halt. Come no further.' It is not permitted to peruse the books, only to ogle some of them on display in wooden show cabinets. It is easier to not think of her, here.

It was at the imperial library that he met Ernst Wagner. Wagner had recently reached tenure as the vice rector at the University of Vienna. They had first spoken in regard to a recent controversy involving two bishops who had denounced the governor and his political party for favoring birth control and divorce. Wagner openly opposed the bishops, who had since started their own rival Catholic party. While standing at the imposing foot of the warning emperor, Wagner told Dr. Lecter this:

"As a historian, I believed it to violate the tradition of Church and State separation."

"What about as a politician?" Dr. Lecter asked.

"Ah, I predicted that there wasn't enough strength in Catholic ranks to create a meaningful platform. The failure of the bishop's party will be disastrous."

"And as a theologian?"

Wagner took a moment to gaze up at the frescoed dome, his eyebrows raised, his thin, friendly mouth smiling a bit. Dr. Lecter could see the white fuzz of an aging man on the folds of his ears in the chiaroscuro museum lights. He was still looking up when he began speaking, again. "I believe that the Church must always condemn injustice in the light of the Gospel, but never has the right to speak in favor of a specific political party."

"I'll only ask one more. What about as a man?"

Wagner looked back at Dr. Lecter at that and laughed. "I think divorce and birth control are nobody's business but those involved. "

"An unusual position for a canonist. What did they do with you?"

"Oh, they threw me out," he explained, with the casual gesture of a hand.

Dr. Lecter _tisked_ with his lips pursed and a slow shake of his head. "And right after you made tenure. A shame. What will you do with yourself now, former vice-rector Herr Wagner?"

"I think now is the time to analyze my own functions as an educator. Listen, I'm headed to the Trattoria for a cappuccino, do you want to join me?"

"Tratorria. It is close, I'll give it that, but that's all it gets."

"Is that so?" Wagner asked, with a laugh. "Do you know of a better place, then?"

Dr. Lecter smiled and invited Wagner with an arm to walk with him. "Stick with me. At the very least, in the arena of food and drink, I will never steer you wrong."

* * *

It was summer when he purchased a permanent home under the name John Boucher. It was an old alias, but his documents were still good. He spent only a few weeks with certain renovations; it was an old house and there were certain walls he found unnecessary, and cut off the flow of the space. Furnishing the home did not take long, as it came furnished and many of the original pieces were to his liking, particularly the upstairs study which was left nearly untouched. It was a Gothic, high-vaulted chamber which naturally appealed to the monster. Having spent many years confined, Dr. Lecter savored any opportunity to spread himself out. There was a desk in the study which notably pleased him. The desk stood on fluked oak legs, and carved lions heads and acanthus leaves on the drawer fronts. When sitting at the desk, the fireplace was at his back and flanked by three-door bookcases. Their deep cornices sat above glazed doors and flanked by pilasters carved with more lions, and figural masks. To his right, when he sat at the desk, was a gossip bench beneath the window. To his left, the doors to the study which were purchased from a chapel in Belgium. Above the desk was a prayer sculpture of a hooded maiden; her head bowed in reverence over her rosary and resin-casted tears fall from her closed eyes.

The first person to be invited to Dr. Lecter's new home was Ernst Wagner and his professed ladylove, Rita Steiner. Naturally, the woman was half Wagner's age. At one time, it would have been easier for Dr. Lecter to be amused by such a common precept. She was attractive enough, with dark hair and eyes, both of which she knew how to use. Her smile bothered him slightly; she had lopsided dimples which did nothing for her upturned nose. By and large the picture made sense as a whole, but any one feature on its own was left wanting. She sat next to Wagner at Lecter's dining room table while he served them seared sea scallops with lemon-herb beurre blanc.

The next time he served dinner, he decided it called for something hardier and turned to _The Joy of Cooking_. He chose beef braciole. He had always admired the Italian art of stuffing meat with meat. This time, in addition to Wagner and Steiner was Mizzi Dresler, a woman Dr. Lecter had met through Wagner. She was an emeritus professor of his former university, and a medical historian and gender studies scholar. While she often found herself having to focus on the latter subject, the former alienating those less informed, Dr. Lecter enjoyed a number of discussions with her regarding the histories of medical practices. She knew a good deal about medieval medicine. In fact, she knew more than Dr. Lecter, himself.

Also at his table was her grandson, David Dresler, a philologist. He was the youngest at the table, but held his own. Dr. Lecter was fascinated to see how much he could undercut and chide him without Mizzi's interference. She did not once intervene. He found her to be cold and fairly bright. He could not help but look at the nape of her neck at one point as he stood behind her, leaning forward slightly in order to refill her wine glass. The skin there was fragile and he was certain that beneath the depths of her gown there would be a patch of down there, and he thought of Tagine of Mazzi with apricots. Then he thought of Starling and quickly dove back into the conversation.

Across the table from Wagner and the Dreslers were Léonie and Joseph Strobl, the two primary patrons of _Musikverein_. They were currently inviting him to the Vienna Philharmonic Ball. Léonie's lips were stained a lovely shade of purple and he watched her lick them as she looked at him, before continuing.

"Once a year during 'Fasching', the _Musikverein_ is transformed from a venerated concert auditorium into a ballroom. The Golden Hall is decorated with floral arrangements and the seats on the main level are removed to form the dance floor. It really is something you cannot miss, Herr Doctor."

"It certainly is worth attending at least once," said Wagner, nodding to himself. He looked up at Dr. Lecter. "But once is enough," he said.

"Oh, Ernst," Léonie said with a roll of her eyes and a furtive glance at her husband. She looked at Dr. Lecter. "Don't listen to him, he's pursuing the life of a hermit."

"Solitude is fine, unless you need someone to tell you it's fine," countered David. Wagner laughed the laugh of a curmudgeonly old man; soft but heavy with stiff, bobbing shoulders and a gravely throat.

"Quotes are useful to impress upon those lesser minds, your assumed intellectual superiority. But quotes cut down and widdled for your own purposes is the petty, quibbling work of a neophyte," said Dr. Lecter, his voice no less cutting at a calm, low volume. David's smile faded away and he glanced at his grandmother for support, but she laughed, riotously. It was better she had, because it was upon this mood the rest of the company succeeded in pressing on. Dr. Lecter looked at David, who was beginning to have trouble keeping his irritation hidden.

"But you're not wrong to defend his solitude," Dr. Lecter continued. He took a sip of his wine, and no one attempted to hijack the floor while he did so. "Solitude is worth protecting," he continued. "Herr Wagner is a philosopher and a scholar. He has his books to keep him company, and there is no superior method for avoiding life."

"Here, here," said Joseph, and the others raised their glasses, smirking or grimacing.

At the door, Léonie offered her hand to Dr. Lecter and was disappointed, though not surprised, when he did not kiss it.

"If you decide to attend the Philharmonic Ball, do tell me. You can sit with Joseph and I, and our assistant, Étienne ." Then, in a more confidential tone," you should enjoy her company. She's French, from Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, I believe. Certainly you would enjoy speaking French with someone."

Dr. Lecter smiled broadly at her and placed his hand gingerly on top of hers, which still clung to his other. "Certainly, Frau. Thank you for coming."

Wagner stayed behind, even after Steiner had gone. They sat across from one another in the downstairs study in oxblood club chairs. The fire was winding down and their glasses of sherry were nearly empty. Wagner was slumping and sulking at the embers.

"I don't know what's wrong with me, lately," he said, without looking away from the fire. "I find myself irritable at the most absurd moments. The other day, Rita suggested I write a book, and for an instant," he paused to glance at Dr. Lecter and raise a pointed finger," just an instant, mind you, I wanted to hit her."

In the following moments of silence, he glanced again at Dr. Lecter to gauge his level of disgust with him. He found none, and settled back in his chair.

"I would never strike her," he said, giving an abrupt shake of his head. "I've never wanted to strike a woman before. What was that?"

"Your strong suit is in academia. You've spent the better part of your life focused on two or three things, and you know them well. Now you're unsure of whether they were things worth knowing at all. You're afraid you've wasted your life and you feel impotent. Rita's attempt to help you stung all the worse."

"It's more than that. I don't know how serious Rita even is with me. She's younger, she knows she has options. I suspect she is seeing someone else."

"Did you establish monogamy?"

"No, but isn't it usually implied?"

"Not anymore."

"You're probably right. And I can't even blame her. What can I offer her now that younger men could not? She doesn't want someone whose peak is through; she wants hope for the future. She wants a damned adventure. I only want to smoke and read. I'm useless to her and she'll figure it out."

"There's no bigger schoolgirl in spirit than a cynic, Herr Wagner. Quit sniveling in my house."

Wagner eyed him and waved a hand, "Yes, okay. Fine. If not a cynic, then what do you suggest?"

"What is it you want, Herr Wagner?"

"I've wanted so many things. I am not used to wanting only one, and it feels like dying all on its own. I want Rita."

The beats of quiet that followed eventually led Wagner to look at Dr. Lecter, and found him leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He wore a muted smile behind his fingers, interlaced at his lips. At length, he tucked his hands beneath his chin. "Would you like me to help you?"

Wagner frowned and tilted his head. "Could you?"

"I could try."

Wagner nodded at the fire, as though seeking its approval.

"Yes. Herr Baucher. I would be honored to have your assistance."

Dr. Lecter smiled. "Then you will have it."

It was on a gray, overcast Sunday afternoon that Dr. Lecter's thoughts began to return to Clarice Starling, again and again. He had been doing some shopping when he first found himself thinking of her. He had to willfully put her out of his mind in order to remain vigilant and present. A flock of birds took flight as he walked across a street, and two women looked after him for a moment when he passed them. His features were darkened as he walked home, deep in thought.

Later, when it was getting dark, he found himself at his desk. He didn't take the seat, but loomed over it, his shadow hovering over the blank stationary. He touched the pen with his fingertips. The stationary, which he had bought weeks beforehand, was purchased directly from the specialized papermaker, Gmund. Since the era of Goethe, Dr. Lecter reflected, the written word has reigned supreme. Germany has maintained an unrivalled reputation for penmanship, and so the art of papermaking has not died. What one writes is paramount, but what one chooses to write on mattered, too.

He ran his palm across the paper, barely touching it. The paper is ergonomically streamlined, and embedded with mohair, accounting for its lustrous finish. _Quality paper_, he thought, _is highly tactile and evocative. _Yes, what one chooses to write on mattered, at least to Dr. Lecter.

Still, he didn't sit, and he didn't write to her. He decided it was too soon to open communication, having been only three months. She needed time to separate them more than space. She needed to commune with her selves, to reorient. He would write to her when it was time. Until then, he would have to nourish himself with his memories. His tottering lover may not be ready to hear from him, but he could think of her at his leisure, now.

Outside, four carriatides hold the stone balcony above their heads, and Dr. Lecter stood above them in the center, his hands coming to rest along the edge. Behind him, three lion heads in relief decorate the wall, each fixed in an eternal bellow. The clouds had receded enough he could nearly see the moon. He watched the sky until, finally, it partially came into view. It was only an illumined sliver, but it stayed exposed for many long minutes, before it was obscured, once again.

Dr. Lecter thought of Starling's body in relief, where she lay beneath his sheets. He had let her rest for a little while after the initial break. He had not done it quickly, and their recent activities merited an interlude. He had been sitting with his back against the headboard, her feet near his right side. She lay turned away from him at first, holding herself. Only one of her calves and part of her foot were visible. He looked at her skin intently, at the slope where knee met thigh before disappearing into the caverns of the sheets. He looked at the pinky underside of her foot, at her toes. Then he touched her toes and she startled. He came forward with a hand on her hip, and she turned to look at him over her shoulder. He watched her watching him as he moved closer and she lay frozen with the shocked, trance-like surrender of an animal in the jaws of another. He nudged her over and her skin whispered beneath the sheets. When he smoothed her hair with both his hands, she sat up, and they looked at one another.

"I'm sorry for the profanity," she said quietly, in the semi dark.

"You were entitled," he answered. She looked down where his hand rested on her thigh, watched his thumb stroking her. When she looked back up:

"Tell me something."

"Tell you what?"

"Anything," she answered, looking away.

What a beautiful thing, that. She had served him an opportunity to sting her on a silver platter. _Tell me something_, she had said. _Anything_. She needed to hear his voice. She needed to hear her own voice, too. He'd torn her, and she'd let him, and she'd enjoyed it, and now the endorphins were dropping, the oxytocin rising, and she was feeling lonesome and fearful. She moved her arms to cover her breasts, and he watched to see if she would cry. She did not. What a beautiful thing that had been.

"Tell me what you're feeling," he'd said.

"I feel," she paused, gathering herself,"sick."

"Ummm. Show me where it _hurts_, Clarice."

She'd looked at him sharply, a flicker of anger and betrayal on her face.

"I mean it," he said. "Show me."

She trailed a hand from her heart to her navel. "It actually…_hurts_."

"I know, my little doxy. That's because your body has released a large amount of oxytocin that tells you your body is safe with me; it tells you to desire affection and intimacy with me. But your mind tells you the opposite. That conflict would be very painful."

He took her shoulders and pulled her forward until she nodded her head into his chest. "But don't worry. During these unions I may tease you, tear you and torment you, but I will not allow you to do those things to yourself, by leaving you alone with your own inquisition. Not for longer than you can take. I'll always know how much you can take. If you're ever unsure of what you can count on, at any moment, count on that. When you are here with me, you are mine. And I take care of what is mine, and I never give my possessions more than they can take. Do I lie, Clarice?"

She had hummed into his shoulder, before straightening up to look at him." I believe there's much hearsay about that." She wore a small, strange smile. "Probably instigated by _you_. You've lied, of course you've lied. But in my personal experience, not much. Not directly. Only once, that I recall. Not _about me_. Never about me."

Dr. Lecter took a single second to access his memory palace to recall the lie. She wasn't wrong. He had told her that he'd suspected that Raspail's lover had died in a banal asphyxiation transaction. He hadn't decided how he would give her Jame Gumb, yet. Fair enough. He commended her with a bow, as he stood in the foyer of his mind palace. The skull at his feet reminded him of more than death.

_A nod to death, a nod to Starling, hmmmmm. _She was entirely correct. He had much to do with how others perceived him. He was the creator of his own myth. No one had ever noticed that, and for just a moment, he was mesmerized by her discernment.

"Then listen to this: Between the faith of your mind and the faith of your body, your body happens to be correct. It is safe with me. _You_ are safe with me."

They were looking at one another when the trace of a frown appeared on her face and she looked down. Her hand was on his, and she was squeezing his thumb. When she let go abruptly, as though she'd realized a spider was on her skin, he grabbed her and lay down on his back, pulling her on top of him. She'd initially reacted with resistance, but having been placed above him, she seemed to hesitate. She held herself up on her elbows, on either side of him. She was nearly flush with him, all but one stray leg, and he felt her toes wriggle beneath his leg for warmth. He smiled at her and caressed her arms, his chin raised.

"Hannibal?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Did you lick your fingers for the shock value or because you wanted to?"

"If I wanted to shock you, you wouldn't have to ask."

She'd chewed her lip a moment and looked away. "There are some things…"

"Yes?"

"Some things I will never understand."

"About me or about everything else?"

She smiled at that. "Both."

"That's alright. You don't need to understand everything about me. What's important is that you understand how it made you feel and why."

"How it made me feel to watch you licking my blood off of your fingers?"

"Yes."

"It was gross, Hannibal."

"Ummm, that wasn't a feeling, was it? How did it make you feel? Did it make _you_ feel gross? Did it make you feel gross to watch me taste you?"

She had to look away, and he let her. She shook her head. "No."

"How did it make you feel?"

She pinched the sheets between thumb and forefinger, rubbing the fabric back and forth, back and forth. Then, very quietly: "It made me feel like a goddess."

He hadn't felt that required a response. Instead, he pulled her closer and smelled her hair until it was all he could smell. His hands moved over her body of their own accord, and he closed his eyes when she made little sounds. Her skin was warm and soft and very much awake. In time, she was unconsciously moving against him. He didn't moan, but his exhales became heavy. Then he could take no more, and had to pull her head up to see her face. She didn't stop moving against him, and he gripped her by the sides. She knew what she was doing, he could see that in her face. She knew what she was doing, and she knew what it was doing to him. Clarice Starling knew what she could do to him, and in the quiet semi-dark, their eyes fixed on one another, she used him and he let her. It was the first time he questioned who belonged to whom.

* * *

Notes:

David misquotes Honoré de Balzac

Dr. Lecter quotes Muriel Barbery (I quote her in Lily too, sorry. I just love that line.)

The smut version has been posted on AO3. I'll be updating it when I update, here. My name on AO3 is JustineBishop. Thank you for giving me the feedback, it certainly pushed me to make that happen. I certainly hope it doesn't disappoint!

If it takes awhile for another update, don't give up on the story or hate me.

Thanks again, and enjoy.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N** Thanks all for your continued support. I apologize for this chapter taking awhile. Dr. Lecter is weaving a bit of a tangled web, and there is my own reality to contend with, too. As usual, comments and criticism are welcomed and encouraged. The following chapter I think will not take as long as this one did.

I realize, specifically for clannibal fans, that the periods of time which pass between Hannibal and Clarice interacting may feel a bit long, but I hope I manage to still make their respective lives apart from one another interesting. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Dr. Lecter did not have to wait until the Philharmonic Ball to meet Etienne Alarie. It had been raining for five consecutive days, but on a muggy Saturday afternoon it only drizzled around noon, and then paused again as people began gathering around the _Musikverein_.

The building was most impressive just as the sun sets-when there was still light, but no need to shade one's eyes. It's lights lit it in an ominous sort of way, from beneath its eaves and columns, making the beiges gold and the terracottas like fire lanterns. The darkening blue sky beyond its facade made it stand in beautiful contrast.

It was a 10th Chamber Music concert, and he met the Strobls during the pause between Debussey's _Pelléas et Mélisande_ and Beethoven's _Symphony No. 2_. Léonie waved to him and he caught her eye. Her husband stood behind her with his back to Dr. Lecter, talking to someone else. Etienne stood an arm's reach away from Léonie, looking poised with a little effort. She glanced to see at whom Léonie waved, and he caught her eyes as well. He couldn't be sure at the distance, but he thought she may have shuddered.

He had to first be introduced to Bernhard Wagner-Artz, who was the pianist. He found this to be crass, and at one point, turned away from Joseph Strobl as he was speaking directly to him to look at Etienne. It irritated him that he had to go to such a length for them to remember to introduce the lady. Of course, then they were all manners and back-pedaling courtesy, and even carried on minutes later into a discussion about their various charities. That came shortly after Dr. Lecter took Etienne's narrow, rosy palm into his and bent his head over her soft knuckles. He smiled at her when his head came up, and the moment she looked away, he winked at Léonie.

He offered to accompany her for a drink, and she seemed both leery and anxious to go with him. Safely away from her employers and drink in tow, she turned to him and gave him the briefest of looks. It was a look many of us have seen and given, but is not necessarily easy to describe. It communicates, 'Must we, too, pretend?' She chose to play it safe, which he respected. It would also make the following moments more amusing.

"What part of France are you from, Herr Doctor Boucher?" she asked, but her eyes were forward, watching the crowd. He moved slightly, so that he stood beside her and could look with her while they spoke.

"I am not from France," he said, and she looked at him with her eyebrows knitted. Etienne had delicate features, and there was something about her mouth that was very appealing. The shape of it, perhaps. The way the corners were slightly upturned as though she were always making an effort not to smirk. It played beautifully on the arched, irreverence of her eyebrows. The look was softened by her coloring, all chestnut and blushing butter cream. Very toothsome, indeed. She was perfect.

"Oh, I-"

"When I introduced myself to some of our mutual acquaintances, assumptions were apparently made. More than one, it would seem."

"What others?" she asked, turning to look him, intrigued. The true nature of his origins were easily forgotten.

"That we should meet, solely due to the mistaken idea that we are from the same country."

Her lips moved, slightly. It was not exactly a smile or a pursing of the lips, but it was the distinct harnessing of one or the other.

"Worse things have come from assumptions," she responded, looking back at the crowd.

"Agreed. Tell me, Frau Alarie, what else have you heard about me? If you tell me, I'll tell you."

Now she smirked, and dipped her nose quickly into her wine glass. When she answered, her voice was lowered. "Frau Strobl told me what you said to poor David when they had dinner at your house, which is apparently, more than acceptable."

"The house, or what I said to David?"

Another smile. "Both. Quite cruel, what you said," she added, and when he didn't immediately respond, she glanced at him, again.

"Does that bother you?" he asked, and took a sip of his wine while watching an older couple shuffle past, talking too loudly about people who were undoubtedly in the room.

"Bother me?" Etienne shrugged a shoulder. "If cruelty bothered me, I doubt I would have survived my four brothers growing up."

He looked at her. The movement was not sharp but deliberate, and she paused with her wine glass at her lips, catching his eyes.

"A brother should not be cruel to his sister."

"I agree. Hence, the aforementioned cruelty. It comes in many forms, does it not? Some prefer this flavor over that."

"Do you have a preference, Frau Alarie?"

"Of course," she said, with her delightfully puckered, disenchanted accent. "Everyone does. They just don't discuss it."

"But you do."

That seemed to raise her heckles slightly and he saw she had become minutely defensive. "So do you," she pointed out.

"But you brought it up," he said, in a mock tone of childish needling. It succeeded in making her smile again.

"And you, too!" she said, laughing softly into her wine glass, before taking another sip. After a moment, she eyed him again, another measuring of him, a different kind. Now, she was gathering courage. _Ah, she will approach the topic of my intentions._

"I didn't expect you to lean towards a _fraternal_ bond with me, Herr Doctor," she said, choosing also to drop his surname, now that they were acquainted.

"We've already covered the consequences of assumptions, Frau Alarie. And worse ones could still be made and will," he said, his eyes sparking. He looked away, and took on a more casual tone, as they each returned to cast their gazes upon the chattering, pecking crowd.

"I have no intention of soliciting you. In all honesty, I find the thought inappropriate. However, I am glad to have met you. It's good to find a leopard in a room of jackals."

"You flatter me. I work for the jackals, remember?"

"And what better position for the leopard to take?" he asked, and she looked at him for a long beat, before descending back into her wine and own thoughts.

After the end of the performance, he made sure to visit once more with the Strobls, and to make plans with them in front of Etienne. In addition, he invited Etienne to join them in front of the Strobls. He would be inviting even more people into his home, this time. There were preparations to be made, indeed.

The following week, he met with Wagner first for rolls and coffee, and then to visit the Clock Museum. Dr. Lecter had never been there before, and he could sense the pleasure Wagner took from it. It felt like the nursing of a black fly on his skin.

"Did I tell you that after I left your house that night with the Strobls, a little black dog followed me home?" Wagner was saying. They were walking among the sundials and approaching the Japanese pillar clocks.

"No, you didn't. Is there some significance to that, Herr Wagner?" Dr. Lecter said, not masking his amusement with the antics of a man clearly in crisis.

"Ah, I know. It's the boring life of an old man, I know. If there's some lore regarding little black dogs following you home, I wouldn't be surprised. There's lore for everything. Anyway, I decided to keep him."

Dr. Lecter eyed him, and Wagner laughed and nodded.

"I know, I know. But what else have I got to lose."

"I do tire of your masked whimpering, Herr Wagner. On the other hand, what does Frau Steiner think of it?"

"Oh, she loves him more than she loves me, I can tell you! Maybe I should shit on the rug, too."

"Leave that as a last resort. Speaking of Frau Steiner, I've had a thought."

"Oh?"

They were looking at the grandfather clocks now, and one appealed to Dr. Lecter, and they paused in front of it. It was 19th century, associated with the wedding of Willem van Loon and Margaretha Bas, the panel behind its face painted by Jan Miense Molenaer. Angels adorned the top playing trumpets. He could feel Wagner's impatience wafting over like an odor.

"If you're so concerned she'll leave you for another younger man, and I'm not saying she wouldn't, perhaps the best thing you can do is let her."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the last thing you should do is cling to her. She will run, I can promise you that. However, if you let her feel free, and if you remain constant as she wanders, she is likely to return to you. It's true young women often seek adventure, but where do you think they go once they've discovered that all adventure is, is uncertainty? Where do you think they go when they grow weary of uncertainty?"

"That's logical. But what if she does not return to me?"

"If we're careful, we can be sure she does. All of that depends on to whom she wanders."

"Herr Boucher, are you suggesting I nudge Rita into the arms of a specific man?"

"What an interesting idea, Herr Wagner. I will give that some thought."

Wagner laughed his gravely, vibrato laugh. "My friend, you are even more devious than I."

"But to what end, my friend?"

"Indeed, yes. Thank you, Herr Boucher."

"Call me John."

"Thank you, John. And please, call me Ernst."

"You're welcome, Ernst," Dr. Lecter said, and smiled a genuine smile at Wagner which made him uneasy for hours. He dismissed it at as apprehension about Rita.

* * *

The dinner party of Herr Doctor Boucher was held in October. In attendance were the Strobls, the Dreslers, Etienne Alarie and her cousin, Valarie Martin, Ernst Wagner and Rita Steiner, the pianist Bernhard Wagner-Artz and his wife, Sophie, and David Dresler's professor and mentor, Adrian Baur. After cocktails, the first course was served—ham-wrapped figs with marinated bean salad and hazelnuts. There was good talk over the first course, but he was hopeful it would get far better.

Anyone would be hard-pressed to follow any footprints he left behind, on this night. Steps were certainly to be taken, and not just by him. The following hours would be a delicate game, the rounds of which would come in carefully segued segments of Dr. Lecter's own making. His touch needed to be precise and deliberate-the influence, fine and sharp.

He thought of the celesta; an instrument requiring a firmer touch than the piano, but with the most subtle, ethereal of sounds. Of course then, he thought of Tchaikovsky's _Dance_ _of the Sugar Plum Fairies_. He found it continued playing in the acoustics of his sprawling mind, all through the night. . .

The main course was grilled medallions of pork in black cherry-pepper sauce with spaetzle and braised fennel. By this time, they were not rowdy, by any means, but the atmosphere was hot and alive. He eyed Etienne. She was looking at him, with her incidental smirk. He watched his attendants. David Dresler and Joseph Strobl took turns ogling Etienne, while Léonie Strobl and Rita Steiner took turns batting their eyes at Adrian Baur, who watched Valerie Martin, who hummed her approval at Dr. Lecter's cooking.

Later on, everyone began to scatter-wandering, talking and drinking. In the downstairs study, David and Adrian Baur sat in the club chairs drinking cognac and discussing the presumed doom of philology. They were speaking in German and their heads came up when Dr. Lecter entered the room.

"Herr Boucher. Won't you join us? I'd like your take on something, if you're not too busy playing host," said Adrian, ignoring David who looked away, his mouth twitching.

"_Erst kommt das Fressen, dann kommt die Moral, _yes," said Dr. Lecter. "I'd be honored."

"You know Brecht?" Adrian said, impressed.

"Yes, but don't expect me to be an accurate representation."

"Herr Boucher, tell us really," began David, "are you from America? If so, I would understand why you so deftly avoid discussing your origin."

"I've spent some time there, like many of us. But, no."

"I've never actually been," Adrian reflected. "Do you think they even have philologists there?"

"They barely read, there."

"Should America be the evidence of philology's fate, though?" asked David and Dr. Lecter shook his head.

"Oh, I don't think so. I think the root of the problem is that the disciplines of German studies and classics have drifted apart, to both their disadvantages."

"I agree," David responded quickly, if not wearily. He looked up at the appearance of Etienne. "Frau Alarie," he said, giving a bow of his head as the three of them stood.

"Frau Alarie, I was just speaking with Herr Strobl," said Dr. Lecter. "I believe he's looking for you. I last saw him in the library, shall I escort you?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you. Has anyone seen Valerie?"

"She's in the music room with Frau Stroble and my grandmother," David said.

She nodded, looking from one man to the other. "I'll go and see what Her Strobl wants," she said, raising an eyebrow at Dr. Lecter. He bowed his head and the men sat back down.

"Pretty one," Adrian reflected, when she was safely down the hall. "But her cousin, Frau Martin…"

David laughed and looked at Dr. Lecter who briefly raised his eyebrows, just once.

"Perhaps we should lure her here and leave the two of you alone for a bit," David joked.

Adrian scoffed and waved a hand, as Dr. Lecter sat back in his chair. "I don't think that's a bad idea. Why not?" Dr. Lecter wondered, aloud. "It would give you a chance to get to know her. That's what these things are for, are they not?"

"Good point," David said, pleased to have survived a few minutes of conversation with the razor tongued Herr Doctor.

"Well…" began Adrian.

"I do wonder…" considered Dr. Lecter, a finger along his nose.

"Yes? What?" asked Adrian.

"Well, I was speaking to Frau Alarie the other day. She was telling me about her cousin who was visiting, and I of course, invited her along. Frau Martin is single, but Frau Alarie indicated to me that she has a tendency to be rather…choosy. Which is a commendable trait."

"Oh, yes. Depending on what you're looking for," said David, grinning at Adrian, whose folded hands opened in admittance or prayer.

"I'd enjoy settling down, to be truthful. I am getting older and I've had my fun. Do you find yourself in a similar state, Herr Doctor?"

"Ah, don't subvert Herr Dresler's and my intrusion, just yet. We're talking about you," said Dr. Lecter.

"Yes, yes, let's keep talking about _you_, Herr Baur," David said, smiling.

"Fine, fine. Well, I am not opposed to pursuing the allusive Frau Martin. Admittedly, though, it's been a while."

"Ummm. Maybe you should…" Dr. Lecter began, trailing off as he gazed at the fireplace.

"Yes?" wondered David.

"I can't help but think: if you are endeared to Frau Martin, who we have established is a bit fickle, then perhaps it would be prudent to avoid pursuing her at the outset."

"Do you mean I should give chase to another, first?" asked Adrian.

"Oh, that's a very interesting idea. I've done that before, in fact," said David. "As an undergraduate I was enamored with a girl, Patrice. I wasn't the only one, you see. I was also rather inexperienced, at the time. A friend suggested I 'practice' on another young woman or two, to get some experience. I don't mean to say I womanized. I suppose one could call it that, but they were willing participants, after all. In fact, that was the point. To _enjoy the company_ of someone who _enjoys the company_ of others, for the sake of that company. Nothing more, nothing less. When I felt more confident, I set my sights on Patrice, who had notice, peripherally, that others seemed to enjoy my company. She was more receptive to my advances."

"Very well articulated, Herr Dresler," commended Dr. Lecter.

"Thank you, Herr Doctor," said David, clearly pleased.

"Who, though?" Adrian seemed to ask the fireplace.

"Perhaps it would be best to play it by ear," suggested Dr. Lecter. Adrian nodded, and David sat back in his chair, as though it were all settled.

Not long after, in the hallway, Dr. Lecter waited a few moments outside the library. He poised his hand over the door handle, waited close to a minute, before brusquely entering. A sharp movement behind a lamp shade preceded Etienne standing, abruptly. Her cheeks were red, her eyes furious, sparking in the lamplight beneath her face. Joseph Strobl retreated a hand to his lap and he stood with her, at length. By the time he had turned, Etienne had come to the door, pausing briefly in front of Dr. Lecter who plunged deeply into her eyes in the brief time allotted. She flitted out of the room then, like a startled finch.

"That didn't go well," said Joseph.

"I see. Don't take it too badly, she is young and impetuous."

"Impetuous? That's a nice way of putting it. I hate it when little sluts like Etienne suddenly put on a show, as though they're not a little slut. They know it, I know it, but when it comes down to action, suddenly they play the part of an offended little maiden."

"I certainly hope she won't divulge this to anyone. For your sake, of course."

"No," he said, shaking his head and coming around in front of the sofa. He put his hands in his pockets when he stood in front of Dr. Lecter. "I made sure of that."

Down the hall and to the left were the French doors leading to the terrace, and Dr. Lecter found Etienne there, her arms crossed and one shoulder pressed against the wall. She did not look away from the trees outside when he approached.

"Tell me what happened," he said.

"You need me to?"

"No. But I thought it might do you some good to say it out loud to someone."

"He put his hand on my thigh and suggested we do something. I declined."

"And?"

"And he threatened to fire me and destroy my reputation if I told anyone."

"Ummm. And what will you do?"

She finally looked at him, irritation explicit on her face. "What should I do? What can I do?"

"Remember the room full of jackals?" She looked away again, and he went on. "Do you remember what you are?"

"So you say."

"Quit feeling sorry for yourself, you're wasting time."

She frowned for a moment, before taking a long, deep breath. He waited quietly until she straightened up. She turned to face him, fully. "What would you suggest I do, then?"

"Take revenge, of course."

"And why would you care if I do or not?"

"I have my own game. Help me win mine, and I guarantee you'll win yours."

They looked at one another for a few moments, their eyes hungry in the dark.

The music room was on the other side of the home, but the music playing from the study still carried. Here, Léonie, Valerie Martin and Mizzi Dresler lounged around drinking Chartreuse. Mizzi sat at the piano bench facing Léonie, who sat comfortably in a wing-back chair. Valerie stood at the lit fire, her drink on the mantle.

"Well, she strikes me as a rather dull woman. You would think that being the wife of a performer, she'd have a bit more charisma," said Léonie. Mizzi waved her hand and cleared her throat in a way that made Léonie grip the chair arms so as not to cringe.

"A woman should not be obligated to take on exhausting personas in order to please her husband's cohorts, if you ask me,"Mizzi said.

"Who are you talking about?" asked Valerie, turning around to face them.

"Frau Wagner-Artz. The pianist's wife."

"Oh."

"Anyway, at least it's amusing to watch your grandson flounce about in front of you and Etienne," said Léonie, throwing her head in Valerie's direction.

"Woman, you put David to shame when it comes to flouncing!" Mizzi countered.

Before Léonie could respond, Etienne appeared in the doorway. "Here you are," she said, looking at Valerie and bringing David into the room with her. "Herr Doctor requests your company in the library with Herr Strobl. He said he has a painting he wishes to show you. By Charpentier."

"Charpentier!" Valerie exclaimed. "He was listening at dinner."

"Oh, yes. He's always listening," said David, grinning at Etienne.

"I can't believe he didn't tell me he had an original Charpentier when I mentioned my love for her work," she said, a hand on her chest. She turned to Mizzi and Léonie and gave her head a bow. "Excuse me," she said, and David and Etienne moved aside for her.

Etienne placed a narrow hand on her cousin's arm as she passed, leaned in and whispered. David was the only one who noticed, but did not hear what was whispered, nor said a word.

"Where in God's name is Ernst? And Frau Steiner, for that matter," Mizzi wondered, scowling at her empty drink.

"I'll bet they're rubbing against each other in some dark room," said Léonie, and Etienne gave Valerie a quick nod, who disappeared down the hall. She then came into the room, swiftly.

"Frau Strobl, I'll fetch you another drink. David, will you take Frau Dresler's glass?"

"Of course."

"Now, here's a couple of good, young people," said Mizzi. David gave her a bow of his head as he took her drink. "Thank you, David," she said, looking away, her eyes somewhat wobbly. "And I'll bet you're wrong, Léonie. Those two couldn't have less chemistry."

"There's certainly chemistry from one end," Léonie responded, and David and Etienne could hear Mizzi's grating cackle from down the hall.

"How can you stand Frau Strobl? She's truly awful," David said, when they were alone.

"She's too distracted by her own secret misery to be harmful. I don't worry about her. Speaking of secrets, may I trust you with one of my own?" She asked, her voice becoming a whisper, even as they entered the kitchen. Wagner-Artz and his wife were in the adjacent dining room but did not look up.

"Of course," he said. She made a show of looking around, glad of the higher volume of music in the empty kitchen. Still, she moved closer to him. His fingers twitched at his sides.

"My lovely cousin is taken with you," she whispered, grinning.

"Oh! Your-your cousin?"

Etienne nodded, turning around to refill Léonie's drink. Remembering to do the same, David moved to stand next to her at the bar. "I had no idea."

"In case you decide to pursue her, I'll warn you: she plays hard to get."

"I see."

When they were finished, Etienne turned to face him. "You know," she said in a dreamy voice," it's funny. I always find I suddenly have a thing for anyone Valerie finishes with. Who knows what that says about me," she said, shaking her head. She eyed him and smiled, giving him a gentle elbow to the arm. "Perhaps you're next," she joked, and laughed for good measure. David's smile was lopsided.

In a sconce-lit hallway, Dr. Lecter passed Valerie. He gave her a nod, deftly handing her €500 notes. She stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Is this why you asked Etienne to bring me here?" she asked him in a low whisper.

He nodded once. She went on, "You're sure no one knows I'm a-"

"No one knows. Thank you, Madam," he said, and they walked on in opposite directions down the hall.

As he passed the stairs, he found Rita Steiner alone with one hand draped on the banister, and one foot on the first step. She turned quickly when he cleared his throat behind her.

"Oh!" she said, a hand on her chest. She stepped down, turning to face him. Her other hand still gripped the banister. "You frightened me, Herr Boucher."

"I apologize. May I help you find something?"

"No, no. I was just doing a bit of exploring, I hope it's alright."

"Need a bit of solitude?" he said, with a tilt of his head. Rita Steiner was not where she belonged. He held his hands behind his back and Rita's hand finally let go of the banister, and she crossed her arms.

"Truth be told, Ernst fell asleep in the living room."

"Did he?" Dr. Lecter raised his eyebrows and smiled.

"He did! He's just snoring away on your sofa."

Dr. Lecter laughed, and the base of Rita's spine was not the only place that tingled. "The hazards of gifting an old man with your presence, I suppose," he said, and Rita smiled.

"He isn't so very old. And he's so very smart. In fact, he makes me feel rather foolish, at times."

"Not intentionally, I hope."

"Goodness, no."

"Ernst is not a cruel man, in my limited experience. Though, between you and me, he can be regrettably self-pitying, at times. No one is without fault, of course."

"I do know what you mean," she said, coming a little closer. Nothing comforts weaker animals more than the prospect of preying on another. In the case of humans, we prey upon the character, most readily. "Sometimes, after I've soothed his ego for the second or third time in an evening, I feel rather exhausted."

"It isn't wrong to yearn for something requiring less energy," began Dr. Lecter. I've certainly been guilty, myself. I hope you would never think I would judge you if you were to mingle with others here, tonight. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Ernst would be willing to turn a cheek. As fragile as the male ego can be, especially at his age, Ernst is comfortable with his place in the world. He lives on literature, not we mortals. You and I, Rita, are the fake, plastic reeds around which Wagner swims in his little aquarium. We do not feed him, no. He feeds upon the little morsels of ideas and fables provided to him."

"How true," she said, her hand returning to her chest. "Herr Doctor, you speak so beautifully. You must be one of the cleverest men I've met."

"Frau Steiner, if I were to use the wits given to me, I should assume a woman of your grace doesn't exist." He watched her blush and look at the walls and little tables in the room until she felt safe in returning to his face. "Furthermore, any man in this house should be honored to have their heart broken by you. Now, tell me who that might be."

God, but he hoped she did not choose him.

"Can I really trust you to be discreet, Herr Doctor?"

"You may trust me with anything."

She lowered her voice. "I would very much enjoy talking with Herr Baur."

"An excellent choice. Well. In regard to Ernst's extraordinary ability to fall asleep anywhere, I'm sorry you were left without entertainment. Would you like to join me in the kitchen? I was just going to refresh some drinks."

"That's alright, I suppose I'll get back to Ernst and hazard waking him up."

"Very well."

When he did not move to leave, but only stood watching her with his frozen smile and unnatural posture, Rita chuckled nervously and came forward.

"What is up there?" she asked, nodding her head behind her.

"My private quarters. I know the house is large," he said, pausing. A sharp, sweeping motion of his arm made her flinch. "The living room is down that way, through the great hall. If you go through the study and make a right, you'll find your sleeping paramour."

Another quiet chuckle, and she followed his outstretched hand, looking back once from down the corridor to see him still standing there, his hands behind his back watching her go.

Joseph still fuming in the library, pawed at various books on the shelves, turned a globe on its axis and crossed his arms, glaring at a painting on the wall. In it, an old, grinning man seemed to lurch toward a decadently dressed young woman. He offered her a purse of coins, and the woman looks out, looks at the viewer, a small smile on her face.

He turned at the sound of the doors closing softly behind him.

"You," he said, before clearing his throat. "Excuse me. Frau Martin. You gave me a start."

"I'm beginning to think it's the house," she said, coming into the room after a moment. "I nearly collided moments ago with Herr Boucher," she said, coming closer. Joseph watched her, leaning his head back slightly when she was closer than appropriate.

He took a step back. "A strange sort of man, Herr Boucher," he murmured, watching her.

"Yes. He is good-looking though. In that strange sort of way you don't immediately notice."

"If you say so."

"Not like you."

"What do you mean?" he asked, when she took a step closer.

"I mean it took me no time at all to see that you were handsome." She put a hand on his arm.

He looked down at her hand for a moment, and Valerie could see the bald spot forming on the crown of his head. He was grinning when his head came up. "You are rather comely yourself, Frau Martin."

She pouted her lip for a moment. "Please. Valerie."

"Valerie," he said slowly, as though tasting the word in his mouth. He smiled again, his teeth ever-so-slightly crooked, and leaned in. Valerie turned her head a fraction to allow him access to her neck, and she smiled at the painting, her eyes glazed.

Sometime later, Dr. Lecter found Wagner and Steiner in the kitchen with Etienne and David, who each smiled brightly at his entry.

"There's the host. Herr Doctor, would it be any trouble to let us out onto the terrace? David and I were just talking about how nice a night it is," Etienne said.

The Wagner-Artzes came into the kitchen, then-glassy eyed from drinking like the rest of the house, save Etienne and Dr. Lecter, who were entirely sober.

"Oh, what a wonderful idea!" said Rita.

"Of course, it's no trouble at all. I'll turn on the lights and provide you with music as well," said Dr. Lecter. "Oh, Ernst," he went on, tilting his head slightly to look at Wagner," After I've escorted them outside, I wondered if you would be willing to part with Rita for a bit. I've wanted to speak with you."

"Certainly, John," said Wagner, giving Rita's hand a squeeze. She kissed his cheek and hooked arms with Etienne.

"You and Herr Doctor go ahead," Etienne said, smiling at Rita. "David and I must be 'good young people', as Frau Dresler said, and bring her and Frau Strobl their drinks."

"Nonsense, we'll join you," said Rita.

Dr. Lecter spoke before Etienne could protest. "If we're going to see Frau Strobl and Frau Dresler, we should tell them that Herr Baur is presently alone in the study. Perhaps they wouldn't mind keeping him company," said Dr. Lecter.

"Of course," agreed Rita, and Etienne smiled at her as they all made their way out of the kitchen.

"I'll make my drink," said Wagner as they all left. "You'll know where to find me."

In the music room, Mizzi scowled at everyone. "I'm old, I'm not moving. And I don't mind being alone. Léonie can go to the study with Herr Baur. You all go, I want to look at the fire and smoke my pipe. Herr Doctor?"

"I'll open a window."

"I'd like to go out on the terrace, too," Léonie protested. "Why am I designated to keep Herr Baur company?"

"You're certainly welcome to join us, Frau Strobl," said Dr. Lecter. Etienne eyed him nervously. "Etienne can keep him company, instead. You wouldn't mind entertaining him, would you, Etienne?"

"Oh, alright," Léonie said quickly. " Etienne is off-duty tonight, of course. I'll go."

"Whatever suits you, Frau Strobl," said Etienne, with a humble bow of her head.

When Dr. Lecter returned to the kitchen, Wagner was indeed, right where he'd left him. He considered everything for a moment, while he still had the privacy Wagner's back allowed him.

The old crone out of the way, smoking in the music room. Valerie seducing an ego-bruised Joseph in the library. David, Rita and the Wagner-Artzes out of the way on the terrace with Etienne. Adrian alone with the desperate Léonie in the study. Ernst alone with him here, in the kitchen. The game was set. You could never entirely predict what people would do, it was true. Yet, he felt confident that the fragile egos of Joseph, Adrian, Léonie and Rita would make them easily molded. He smiled when Wagner turned to him.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Wagner asked.

"Frau Steiner, of course."

"Has it worked then? Does she prefer Herr Baur?"

"She does."

"She said so, herself?"

"Oh, yes. In great confidence."

"And you think he's the right choice?"

"He's perfect."

"What if they fall in love?"

"Herr Baur is not going to fall in love with anyone. However, if he was going to fall in love with anyone, it would be with Frau Martin, not Frau Steiner."

"Excellent. John, you're a genius."

Dr. Lecter took a deep and humble bow. "Now. Let's drink."

Quotes

Dr. Lecter quotes Brecht and William M. Calder III

Translations

_Erst kommt das Fressen, dann kommt die Moral.-_"First comes the feeding(as an animal eats), then comes morality."


	8. Chapter 8

Starling slowed down to go over a speed bump, and something rattled within the bowels of the Pinto. Vehicles communicate quite a lot by the noises they make, and Starling put off the thought that a new car was probably in store, for another time and place. She was driving down a residential road in Woodland. She'd been here before for different reasons, usually to do with local, territorial beefs between Lench Mob and Big 3-0. The last time she was in the area she was wearing tactical gear. This time, she was carrying no more than anyone else walking down the street.

Some of the buildings, red bricked and blocky, reminded her of the Lutheran Home, and she recognized the looks in many eyes here, one of suspicion and a readiness to fight for oneself. There were distant sirens, and when she turned onto 30th street, a parked, armored ice cream truck carried over the sirens with its brassy melody over the loudspeaker. There were some kids gathered around it and a couple of young, African American men standing nearby, leaning against the hood of the car. One of them was wearing a wife beater with a black shirt thrown around his neck and he eyed her as she passed. The trees along this street bent and twisted into deformity from having grown around power lines.

When she pulled into an apartment complex, she parked next to an old, blue minivan. She walked around an overturned portable basketball hoop and knocked on one of the doors on the first level. She looked over her shoulder where a group of kids stood around laughing and yelling. She turned back around when the door opened.

"It's just you?" he asked.

"Yes, Mr. Vidal?"

"Yes," he said, pausing to look behind her," Come in, come in."

When she was seated at a small kitchen table, the young man pointed to the coffee maker. "No, thank you. Mr. Vidal I'm actually on my way out of the city tonight, and I'll need to be on a plane in a couple of hours. I won't take up too much of your time. Please, sit."

Starling had found interviews went better when she made it clear it wouldn't last long, right off the bat. They always relaxed a little, and with that small amount of released tension, with the thought that she would soon be a memory, their answers came forth more readily, the truth peppering the discussion more consistently. He sat and held his hands on top of the table.

"Are you going to interview him, next?" he asked.

"Interview who, Mr. Vidal?"

"Guido. He must be the only one left, by now."

"Mr. Polenta, yes."

"Ever been to Buenos Ares?"

"No. I've been Quito."

"You should visit some time, not for work. It's nice."

"I'm sure you're right. Before we get started, I need to record this, is that alright with you?"

"Well I get protection?"

"Of course. You'll stay anonymous, but I need your testimony on record."

He nodded. Starling had already taken out the handheld recorder and turned it on, setting her purse aside.

"This is Special Agent Clarice M. Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Martin D. Vidal, CUIL Number 30-10251348-8, at 2201 Q St. NW, Washington, DC 20006, apartment number fourteen, on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. Mr. Vidal understands that he will be protected by the Witness Security Program and granted immunity from prosecution in the U.S. Attorney, District-thirty-six and by local authorities in a combined memorandum attached, sworn and attested. Mr. Vidal, please explain your former occupation."

He didn't speak immediately, and looked up at her, as though startled. "Uh…I was the executive housekeeper for the Polenta family, and then I was the family assistant to Fran Polenta and her new husband, Richard Masters in their home."

"So first you worked for the Polenta family, but you went with Fran when she was married and moved out?"

"Yes. She grew up with me in the house, I don't think she wanted to go without me. Fran was…she was young to get married, but even younger at heart than in body. She was innocent, romantic. She was maybe a little attached to me. Her parents were not always around, but I was. Me and the housekeepers and nanny."

"And how long had they been married?"

"Nearly two years. At first she seemed very unhappy. It was…well, I wouldn't say it was arranged, but…Franny felt pegged into a corner."

"They threatened to cut her off, is that correct?"

"Yes. She either married Richard or she was out of the family."

"You said she seemed unhappy at first. Did she change her mind?"

"Okay. When Guido first told her he wanted her to marry a Masters, he led her to believe it was Paul Masters, Richard's brother. When she found out it was not Paul, but his brother Richard, she was very upset, and refused. That was when they threatened to cut her out. Not just the money, the family, you see. After they were married, Richard was always paranoid that Franny was having an affair with Paul, but he'd never caught them. He was so paranoid, he sent her to America for what he called 'a vacation'."

"To Salinas, California."

"Yes."

"And Richard, he stayed behind?"

"He said he did."

"Did you see him around during that time, around the house?"

"Yes, at first."

"Francesca Polenta was in California for less than a week before she died. When did you stop seeing Richard Polenta?"

"Three days after she left."

"And Paul?"

"I don't know if Paul went with her or not."

"Do you know if Francesca Polenta and Paul Masters were having an affair?"

Mr. Vidal looked away for a moment, a guilty look about him, as though he were on the verge of betraying someone. "Yes," he finally said. "I was sworn to secrecy. Understand, that was not uncommon. You see things in the house you run."

"Naturally."

"And I loved Franny in my own way, we all did. But yes, she was unfaithful. Can you blame her so easily? She and Paul were in love, and had been before she was forced into an unwanted marriage."

"You say Richard never caught them, did he have some evidence?"

"Not really, but he heard things. Not from me."

"Do you have any information on the whereabouts of Paul Masters or Richard Masters?"

"No, Ma'am."

"Okay. Thank you, Mr. Vidal. We'll be in touch," she said, turning off the recorder, and he watched her stand.

"Agent Starling, now I've given my story, I will be protected?"

"Yes, twenty-four hour protection."

"The Polentas don't want this out any more than the Masters, and they're both powerful families. It's disgusting," he added, nearly under his breath. "He would rather his daughter's murderer go unpunished than to face another scandal."

"You're referring to the bribery scandal?" she asked, arranging her purse on her shoulder.

"Yes. It's why Guido can't leave Buenos Ares, right now. It's why he married off Franny. He wanted to make peace, publicly, with his greatest financial and social competition."

"Richard and Paul's father, Raleigh Masters."

"Yes. Despite the scandal, Franny was still a valuable diplomatic pawn in the power games of rich men. And still is," he said, crossing himself, "Rest her soul."

_Vidal was right about one thing, _Starling reflected on her way out of Woodland. Guido Polenta was, in fact, the last person she needed to interview, not counting Paul and Richard who were both still missing. She suspected only one of them was still alive. She'd tried calling Mr. Polenta, and always reached his secretary who told her he was unavailable and would call her back, but he never did. A part of her looked forward to showing up at his home the following morning.

Starling had been assigned the Polenta case two months previous. Ordinarily, it would not have been a federal case. However, the missing alleged lover of the deceased Francesca was a federal official. She'd heard various sides of things, much of it sounding like gossip of the help, which Starling knew to never discount. Unfortunately, it was not enough to come to any conclusion, and no testimony thus far had given her any clue as to the whereabouts of the husband or lover of Francesca Polenta, the beautiful daughter of Guido Polenta of the Polenta Group.

Accounts of Paul's personality varied more than Francesca's. Some people deemed him to be romantic, and others claimed he was not particularly interest in the world around him. Yet, he was apparently interested enough to lend his voice in support of his father, a co-founder of a prestigious investment bank. What was beyond dispute was that he was handsome. He was also married with children.

In a way, it was cases like this that bothered Starling the most. It seemed glaringly obvious what had occurred, and yet no action could be taken based upon reason- only evidence, of which there was next to none. Francesca Polenta had been shot, the slug removed. There were fingerprints of all three of them, as well as the maid who cleaned the hotel room where she was found, and about twelve other people. Half of what Richard's fingerprints were found on were on _his_ belongings. As for Paul, his fingerprints proved only that he'd been with Francesca in California. They only hinted at infidelity, not murder. Fingerprints are notoriously unreliable. Starling shared all of these thoughts with Mapp when she got home.

"It's sad," Mapp agreed, and leaned back in the kitchen chair across from Starling. "Hey, you want a beer?"

"Sure. I can't help but feel sorry for Fran. She was only nineteen. Who the fuck knows what they're doing at that age?"

"Hell, I don't always know what I'm doing, now," Mapp said with her head bent at the refrigerator. When she turned around with two beers, she handed one to Starling and sat down.

"It's hard for me to relate to falling for a married man, with children, no less. But I still feel for her."

"I know, Baby. One of them will turn up. One way or another."

Starling opened the beer and took a swig before leaning forward on her elbows. She glanced out the window. She would need to leave, soon. God, she didn't want to leave, but she had to.

"Richard has to be in the U.S. He would've been caught at the border and at any airport."

"You know he came here, for certain?"

"Yeah. We have records of the flight. None of the witnesses say they knew for sure. So far, just about everybody I've talked to have either protected him, or were ignorant. Vidal has been the most forthcoming so far, and he's terrified."

"Hell, I don't blame him," said Mapp, and yawned. "I got to get to bed. I have an early morning," she said. "Want to finish mine?" she asked holding up her beer.

"Girl, finish your drink."

Mapp grinned and downed it in about a minute. Starling laughed when she burped. "Goodnight. No, don't kiss me."

Mapp laughed. "Fair enough. Be safe, Starling."

"Always am."

* * *

The Polenta estate was about as impressive as Starling expected. She was greeted by staff, and seated in a study and offered a beverage. She declined and listened to the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.

Starling did not have many quiet moments to herself. There were car rides, and lying awake at night. Starling did not think of him often, exactly. Yet, he was always there in his way. She did not think of him actively. Sometimes, she almost convinced herself that what had happened six months ago was merely a dream. Sometimes. Starling liked to believe that on some level, it was. That somehow, what had occurred that night- his voice, his mouth, his hands- it was all out of time, somehow.

_A stolen night_, came a verse in her own voice. A stolen night which was to be repeated six more times. What if she did not appear when and where she was to appear? He would kill again, but would he kill her? She did not acknowledge that she knew she would appear, but she knew it. She would always appear. She would appear six more times, anyway.

The door opening behind her made her jump. "Apologies," came a voice, and she stood. Guido Polenta was close to seventy years old, but looked good for his age. _Money did that_, Starling reflected. His hair was white, but he had plenty of it, and his skin was in good condition, despite the wrinkles.

"Not at all," she said, coming forward. "Mr. Polenta, my name is Clarice Starling. Thanks for seeing me. May we talk?"

"Well, I didn't think you'd come to swim," he said, smiling.

He was playing the charm card. Starling could see how that would work a lot of the time. Considering the recent murder of his daughter, it was wildly inappropriate. He seemed to realize it under her gaze, and his smile faltered. Clearly, being charming was a knee-jerk reaction to intimidation.

"I've been trying to reach you," Starling started as she sat back down. She waited until Polenta was seated.

"Have you?"

_We both know I have, you little prick. _Starling smiled.

"Yes, Mr. Polenta. For some time. I'm glad you could make the time, now."

"Of course."

Starling nodded to a framed picture on his desk. "Is that your daughter there?" she asked.

How does he react? Is there sadness? Anger? Bitterness? Nothing? It was a bit of everything, reflected in the glassy eyes of denial.

"Yes, that's my Fran. She's-she was beautiful, wasn't she?"

"She was, Mr. Polenta. And from what I've heard, very kind and charitable."

"Yes," he said, perking up, slightly. "Franny was always involved with charities. We're so-we're so proud."

"Of course. And her husband, Richard Masters. Was he also charitable?"

"He was a political tycoon. They were different, but sometimes different is complimentary."

"How did they meet?" Starling asked.

"Here."

"Here, at your home? What were the circumstances?"

"We were having a dinner party."

"Who else was in attendance?"

"My secretary can prepare a list for you."

"That's fine. And that was the first time they met?"

"Yes."

"Was his brother Paul at this party, too?"

"Yes, the whole family."

"And you've known the Masters for how long?"

"I've known Raleigh for nearly thirty years."

"Old friends?"

"Old rivals," he said, a faint grin, a glint of nostalgia.

"Now, I know this is some time ago Mr. Polenta, but I need to try to get something straight. It's been explained to me that three years ago, you and Raleigh Masters had a bit of a scuffle. Where was that?"

"Oh, that was nothing. It was at a fashion event, and we'd both had a bit to drink. We both made amends."

"So on the evening of March 12, at the Latiwa Art and Fashion Show, you and Raleigh were in attendance?"

"Yes," he said, slowly.

"Mr. Polenta, I have a record that both the Polenta family and Masters family were all in attendance, including Francesca, Paul and Richard Masters. If you're going to lie to me about things like when your daughter met her husband, or anything else, it's going to make it harder for us to get along."

"Ms. Starling-"

"-Special Agent Starling."

"Special Agent Starling…I had simply forgotten that they had met, back then. It was probably only in passing."

"Was it also only in passing during the United Through Sport charity event, seven months before that? And at the annual wine tasting event at the Embassy three years before? Mr. Polenta…" She let herself trail off and watched him sweat.

His mouth screwed up and for a moment, she wondered if he'd shove everything off of the table and throw her out. A part of her hoped he would.

"What does it matter, when they met?"

"Mr. Polenta, it's a federal process crime to knowingly and willfully make false statements or conceal information in any matter within the jurisdiction of the federal government of the United States. That includes lying to a federal agent. Now, come on. Mr. Polenta, I need you to be straight with me, or you're going to end up with a worse scandal than bribery, believe me. Cooperating with me is the best chance you have of ever leaving this country again, and saving your family from even more embarrassment."

"You-"

"Take a moment, Mr. Polenta. I won't be here long. My flight leaves tonight, and I have other business here between now and then. But we have a little time. A little time to do this right."

She let a minute or so pass, and was pleased she didn't have to wait longer.

His face was still red. "She met Richard, _I think_, at a _juego del pato_ game. She never liked him much, but he was taken with her. He was easily taken though. I didn't take it seriously."

"But she decided to marry him?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Almost two years ago, not long before they wed."

"And what led her to suddenly want to marry a man she never particularly liked?"

"She did it for the family. Don't you have family, Special Agent Starling?"

"Was it your idea, Mr. Polenta?"

"Special Agent-"

"Was it your idea?"

"Mine and Raleigh's."

"And what did Fran think of that?"

"What young girl would be happy about it? But she did it for her family. She was a good girl."

"So it's not true that you threatened to cut her out? I have it on multiple accounts that you did."

"_¡No (me) jodás! _I had to! It was for the family."

"Mr. Polenta, was Francesca Polenta having an affair with Paul Masters?"

"I don't know anything about that! If she was, it was her own damn business!"

"Not anymore. Now, it's the business of the federal U.S. government. Your daughter was shot in the U.S., her alleged lover a federal official. We suspect whoever did this is still in the U.S. When we find that person, and you've lied about any of this, you will face criminal conviction."

I told you, I don't know anything about Fran and Paul! I've only heard what everybody else heard."

"And that was?"

"That they were fucking!"

"I see. Thank you for your time, Mr. Polenta. I'll get out of your hair," she said, smiling and standing. Starling thought she heard him say, '_Zorra' _as he left, but she couldn't be sure. It would not be the first time she'd been called a bitch. Starling wondered in how many languages she'd be called a bitch by the time she retired.

* * *

On Thanksgiving, Starling helped Mapp with the food as much as she was allowed, and otherwise stayed out of the way. Starling lay across the sofa in their shared living room, slumped against the arm rest with one leg thrown up onto the seat back. When Mapp came in she flipped on the radio and tickled Starling's foot.

She jerked and frowned. "What are you doing, lying here in the quiet?"

"Thinking."

"About?" Starling watched her lean a hip against the opposite arm rest and cross her arms. Starling raised an eyebrow. "Nonna your business."

Mapp looked away with her lips pursed and nodded. "Okay. I see. Is it about that guy you hooked up with _six months ago_?"

Starling toed one of the upholstered buttons on the couch back. "Seven. No."

"Liar. Why don't you call him, or something?"

"It wasn't like that."

"One night stand kinda thing?"

Starling's eyes were a little glossed over, as she watched her own foot, her toes running along the contours of the arm rest now, along the gimp braid.

"Yeah."

"So he wouldn't want to hear from you?"

"Don't you have cooking to do? What's this?" she nodded her head toward the radio.

"Girl, that's 10,000 Maniacs. And don't pretend with me. You know what this is, and if you want food, you'll talk to me for a minute."

"You'll still feed me."

Mapp rolled her eyes and moved Starling's feet to sit. "Yes, I'll always feed you. And you know it's fine that you keep your private life private. But if you're hurtin', you should talk about it. You don't need to give me the details. Did you hear me?"

"Yeah."

"Are you hurtin'?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me."

"I don't like how I feel about it," Starling said, sitting up and groaning. "I don't like that I think about it."

"How do you feel about it?"

"Wrong. Did you ever do something really bad, bad for you and whatever standard you have, and you just can't swallow that you did it? And it eats at you, and physically hurts? It's like," Starling paused, her hands becoming taut. She closed them around her stomach.

"It's like there's something inside and it's burrowing. But there's no other side for it to get to, so it just scratches and scratches. I almost feel like I can hear it, Dee. Little scratches on the other side of a door I can't open."

Mapp was quiet for long enough that Starling got nervous and looked at her. She was nodding, staring at the coffee table in thought. "Yep. When I was around nineteen I had this friend, Michael. We'd been friends through high school, and we were really close. He had a thing for me," she said, shaking her head.

"I knew it, but I didn't feel that way, you know? I knew I never would, and he had a tendency to be a bit unstable, emotionally. He fought with depression. Anyway, we went to a friend's house to pregame for her party. We were already drinking before people started to show up. We ended up getting shit-faced, and Rhiannon, our designated driver, drove us back to my dorm room. "I told him he could take the couch, and he suggested we just share the bed. If I hadn't been drunk, I would've known it was a terrible idea. We had sex, he lost his virginity. I took his virginity, Clarice. The next morning, I could see it in his eyes, you know? He thought we were in a relationship. Explaining that it had been a mistake was tough. He agreed and seemed okay, but that weekend he tried to hang himself. I didn't even know until his mom called me. I talked to her for a long time at the hospital, I had to tell her what happened. We both agreed I needed to disappear from his life. I've never spoken to Michael, again."

She looked at Starling again, finally. "I never told anybody about that."

Starling's smile was sad. "Thank you."

"For what? Telling you a depressing story?"

"Yeah. It's horrible, isn't it? Human nature. Suffering loves company. The torment is so much more bearable when you know you're not alone."

"Hell is no one but yourself, forever and ever," said Mapp.

"According to a Christian apologist. According to an existentialist, 'Hell is other people.'"

"It's so damn hard, sometimes. The whole, 'How can God let monsters do this and that', thing. It's even harder when you can see a little bit of that monster in the mirror. It wears different faces, but you can always recognize it."

Starling wanted to say, 'What if you invited the monster in? What if you made a deal with it?' She stopped herself before the sentence even formed fully in her mind. Instead she put her head in her hands, and felt Mapp's hand on her shoulder.

"Hey. Would bacon wrapped scallops help?"

Starling nodded with her head still in her hands, and Mapp patted her.

"Okay, Baby. You can have a freebie. And when you're through wallowing in guilt and bacon, come help me in the kitchen."

"I'm allowed back in the kitchen?"

"You can be in charge of the monkey bread."

The letter came the day before Starling's birthday. She didn't realize she'd been waiting for it until it came. She held it in both her gloved hands while sitting cross-legged in her room. She still hadn't decided what to do with it. Her heart was hammering.

_Dear Clarice,_

_Do you find that time heals all wounds? I, for one, do not. The notion presumes that the source of grief is finite. People will tell you all manner of things when it comes to healing properly. Whichever way you choose, never search for it at the feet of those who harmed you, Clarice. __Do you find your scars unsightly? I find that scars remind us that the past is real. I trust yours are healing, nicely. _

_As I write this, there is a conjunction of the moon and Saturn. The pair_ _will be too widely separated to fit within the field of view of a telescope, but will be visible to the naked eye. I hope you did not miss it. If you did, be sure not to miss the upcoming Lyrid meteor shower. Astronomical events are an uncommon feast of the senses, and it would be tragic should you miss it._

_As I know you will not ask, I will tell you: I am both consistent and faithful in my proclivities. Are you? Have you betrayed yourself with belief? Have you been deluded by love or tricked by sex? The bottle is damned faithful, Bukowski tells us. The bottle will not lie. Succumbing to carnal desires is less abysmal than duplicity. Be, at least, as honest as the bottle, Clarice. You pay me the compliment of acknowledging my superiority when you lie to me._

_The ultimate realization of truth is not cheap; you will never find a ready-made path. You must create the way by your walking. Birds fly, but do not leave footprints in the sky. If ever you come to that ultimate truth, I hope to be there for it. I hope to be in attendance in that moment more than any symphony or sunset, more than the blooming of a century plant or the raining of fish, more than any coronation or celestial phenomenon. _

_Until then, I think of you often. _

_Hannibal Lecter_

Starling realized she was holding the letter close to her face, and she set it down in front of her. Mapp was on a date, so she had the house to herself. Before his letter had come, she was bracing herself for the inevitable attention she would get the next day. Mapp was good about not taking it too far, but there was always a 'Happy Birthday' in a sing-songy voice, meant to make Starling laugh. She knew how Starling felt about birthdays and celebrations, in general.

As a rule, Starling's distaste for celebration was not excessive, but it was visceral. She saw them as occasionally necessary, at the very most to serve as bookmarks in life's prattling drudgery for those less purposeful. Her birthday held no meaning for her. It only meant she was still here, and while she was glad of it, she didn't see it meriting ceremony.

Following the 'Happy Birthday', there was usually a lot of brouhaha about a dinner. Starling liked the dinner, overall. Good food was good food, but it always brought a sort of clamor and always involved last-minute errands. A number of times, there were guests. The unfortunate proximity of Christmas to her birthday tended to make it a footnote in the holiday commotion. It could have been one reason, she reflected, she'd learned to not give the day of her birth much ado. It had never been toys on holidays or birthdays that made the true bookmarks in her life, anyway. The real bookmarks were not all joyous, but they were hers.

She looked at the letter on the kitchen table, and then at her gloved hands. Then, she removed her gloves and hesitated only a moment, before running the tips of her fingers along the page. After a few moments, she lifted it carefully back up, bringing it close to her face. She sniffed it once, twice, and then set it down. She could swear she smelled him on it, but wasn't sure. A good indication that she had smelled him was the fact that the scent immediately brought forth memories, and the memories brought forth sensations...

She stood abruptly, the ladder back chair making a shrill squeal on the tiles. She stood looking at the letter for a few beats before heading into the living room.

They had a gas log set installed in a masonry fireplace; at one time in her life, the thought of a gas fireplace would have seemed like the height of luxury. She took a knee to open the flue and light the pilot. She watched a moment, then brought the letter in and sat down, cross-legged. She read it again, and then again. Then she balled it up and threw it in, watching for long minutes as it coiled, darkened and disintegrated beneath the logs.

The next day, Starling came down with her blanket wrapped over her shoulders. It was early, but Mapp was already up. She smiled at Starling and handed her a cup of coffee when she came into the kitchen.

"You running this morning?" asked Mapp, taking a seat across from her.

"Nah."

"You going in today?"

"Not unless I'm called, no."

"Good. You can help with dinner tonight. I have a few errands to run, but you can be my grocery store buddy, right?"

"Always and forever," Starling said around a yawn and took a noisy slurp of the coffee.

Mapp laughed. "Well, alright. Oh, and Starling?"

"Go on, then."

"Haaaappy birthdaaaay."

"Thanks."

"I can't imagine the spoilsport you're going to be on the big 3-0."

"Well, you have two more years to imagine it."

"Or, you have two more years to gain a sense of fun. Folly has an important place in life, Clarice."

She looked up at Mapp, her eyes narrowed in consideration. "You're probably right."

"You're not the only one who's learned to cope. I'll share mine if you share yours."

Starling smiled and removed a pale arm from the blanket, offering her hand. Mapp smiled and shook it.

"Deal," said Starling, a spark in her eye Mapp didn't entirely recognize. "Deal."

* * *

January, and Dr. Lecter meets Etienne Alorie at the _Kriminalmuseum_, a macabre museum dedicated to historical Viennese murders. It is housed in one of the oldest buildings in the Leopoldstadt area, the Soap Boilers House. It holds twenty-two rooms to explore skulls, medieval torture devices, bloody gloves, death masks, and rusty axes. It was Etienne's idea.

Etienne walked with her hands in the pockets of her overcoat, the tip of her nose still pink from the cold. They were standing in front of a guillotine, watching people look.

"Personally, I find it disgusting," she was saying quietly, and sniffed. "They're like sniggering adolescents in an R-rated movie theatre, hoping to be kicked out so they don't have to tuck tails and leave."

"Most people are drawn to death. Death is the siren, humanity is the sailor. Do you know why I think you hate them? You hate them because you know you're one of them."

She looked at him. "Don't delude yourself into thinking you're more than a man."

Dr. Lecter smiled before nodding his chin. "Let's move on."

In front of a cabinet of chains, she leaned towards him, again. "Frau Strobl has been fucking Herr Baur for nearly a month. Herr Strobl has nearly caught them twice. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm going to have to give the situation a little nudge. She's more careful than I thought she'd be."

"Don't do anything without telling me. What about Herr Strobl?"

"I think he's fucked Valerie in every room of the house. They all keep _just_ missing one another."

"What are the usual conditions for Frau Strobl and Herr Baur to come together?"

"Come together?" Etienne snorted quietly and raised an eyebrow. "I can never tell if you choose your wording that way on purpose or not. He usually comes over on Tuesday evenings while Herr Strobl is playing cards with Wagner-Artz and some others. He also comes on Saturdays, occasionally. Herr Strobl is usually out for most of the day on Saturdays. The rest of the time, she goes to him. Tuesday is the day I bet on, as Valerie comes over in the mornings when Frau Dresler has brunch with Sophie and Mizzi. It's the only day both trysts occur. Valerie and Herr Strobl in the morning, Frau Strobl and Herr Baur in the evening."

"I want you to speak with Frau Martin, we'll need her help."

"Alright. When?"

"We have four days until the dual trysts occur?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Speak with her before then. Tonight, if possible."

"Alright. She might ask for more money."

"It doesn't matter."

Etienne tried her best to look Dr. Lecter over without him noticing. He didn't look at her, but she never felt she got away with it. Herr Doctor was a very curious man. She found her body was attracted to his, but something kept her at bay. Perhaps it was the distinct sense that he was not the least bit interested. If there was more, she could not name it, not consciously. At times, she wanted to ask him what he was. A philanthropist? An investor? What did he do to have such money to buy lavish homes in Vienna and pay a _fille de joie_. It was not appropriate to ask.

Etienne had never asked something like this of her cousin. They had not spoken of Valerie's profession often, as it hadn't mattered. She had worried it would cause strain between them, but it hadn't, to her relief. Etienne was surprised that a professional sex worker was, well…professional.

"How are things getting along with David?"

"He's wrapped around my finger, like you asked."

"And?"

"I've managed to encourage him to flirt with Frau Steiner. It is a spectacle."

Dr. Lecter nodded. "How does she react?"

"Annoyed, mostly, to Wagner's delight. It appears to be good insurance for you."

"Good. Has she made any attempt to contact Herr Baur?"

"Oh, yes. She's been calling him and pestering him and making a fool of herself, while Herr Baur does the same with Valerie, who ignores him, as per instructed."

Dr. Lecter nodded, his hands behind his back when he turned briefly to Etienne. He smiled and she gave her head a tilt. "On Tuesday, I want Valerie to forget her purse at the Strobl's."

After his meeting with Etienne, Dr. Lecter felt slightly piqued, and decided he needed to do some quality shopping to right himself. Even though things were going according to plan, he could not help but sense a niggling feeling that it was not enough. One way or another, he would break most of them, if not shatter. It would be amusing, yes. Was it enough?

When he first began to suspect he would not be entirely satiated by the eminent result of his tangled web, he thought it was because he felt constrained by his covenant with Clarice, but that wasn't quite right. What he wanted had to wait. He could play with these people as long as he wished, make it last longer or cut it short. He could vary the degree of pain between one or the other, but it wasn't what he really wanted. He didn't want to play with these people. He wanted to play with the big cat. He wanted to play with Clarice.

Writing to her had been enjoyable. He liked to imagine her reading it, perhaps sitting at her kitchen table, cheap bourbon an arm's reach away from her gloved hands. He imagined her eyes skimming the page, her eyebrows furrowed, perhaps the corner of her coral lips twitching. He wondered if she'd turned it in.

When he arrived home that evening, he brought into his empty house many bags from the shops on _Goldenes Quartier_; Armani, Mui Mui, Chanel, Mulberry, and more. While the results of his game continued to unfold, it was time to prepare for the second round of his favorite one. It was time to make preparations for his _little doxy._ He made a call to Etienne and told her he could not be reached for a time. When he returned to this little arena, he hoped to find more than one skewered heart in time for Valentine's Day.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I want to apologize for how long it's taking me to update. I want to assure everyone that I will eventually finish this story, but it's taking a lot out of me, for some reason. I almost feel like a little bit of my life has been a reflection of these last two circles of hell. When you really immerse yourself in a story like this, at least for me, it can sometimes get lodged in your subconscious and manifest to some extent in real life. Hopefully, in this case, that doesn't continue! Dante's journey doesn't get prettier…**

** It's also taking a lot out of me because I really do put quite a bit of effort into this, even if it is 'just fanfiction', and to top it off, I'm also working on an original novel, so my energy is split between the two, not to mention work. Anyway, excuses, excuses. What I mean to say is: Apologies for how long my updates take, and further apologies for the relative brevity of this chapter (considering how long some of you have waited). But I went ahead and posted what I've got, because I figured some people would rather have a shorter chapter than none at all. **

**One last thing to ensure: I do have a relatively specific plan for all of this. It may sometimes seem like I'm wandering a bit (and maybe I do take detours), but overall, I have a map. And…they will see each other again, soon. We're into February now, and April isn't far… **

**Thank you for your patience and encouragement. I doubt I would continue, otherwise, so you're all as much a part of the making of this monster of a story as me. I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Every February, Starling thought of a poem she'd read as an undergraduate. She never meant to, but always ended up seeking it out and reading it at some point, in the long, brittle month. Starling had decided as a child that February was the longest month; not in the count of days, of course. She knew it was a deception of the mind. February was not quite the start of the New Year, as that responsibility was on the confetti-covered shoulders of January. January carried all of the excuses and distractions of intention and champagne, meaningless count-downs and kisses. January knew how to handle the dragging sense of sorrow that comes with the knowledge that anything that has changed has changed nothing at all. February was unarmed, unless you counted Valentine's Day. Which she did not.

She'd considered buying a book with the poem in it, but never did. In the beginning, she wasn't sure why she wouldn't do it, and gave it little thought. Then it occurred to her one night when Mapp asked her what her favorite movie was. She told her it was _Citizen Kane_, and Mapp had frowned.

"_Citizen Kane_?" She had wondered out loud. "I wouldn't have guessed."

"Why?" Starling asked.

Mapp shrugged."You don't have it."

"Oh. Yeah, the first time I watched it, I wasn't at my house. I was a kid, and we were visiting relatives for a week. I was bored out of my mind and found that movie in their collection. I watched it over and over again. Any time we visited, I'd watch it. Eventually, my aunt asked me if I wanted to have it, and I told her I didn't. I liked the special-ness of not having it to watch whenever I wanted."

"How old were you?"

Starling pursed her lips and shrugged. "Eight, maybe."

"Rather deep and reflective for an eight year old."

"Yeah, well. I also told my mom once that she had a beard on her front butt. Wabi-sabi."

Starling pulled a blanket over her shoulders. It was early, dark out, and she couldn't sleep. For the last two month, she'd been working with Brigham and his team, along with other agents in Illinois, Colorado and Arizona to track down a victim of child pornography. Some of the other agents had been tracking down the abusers of a multistate child porn ring for years. The break in the case had come recently with the arrest of a man named Roy Barrie, a forty year-old military veteran living with his parents, who had known nothing about their son's activities. They finally tracked down the boy's parents the night before. Starling didn't know how she'd react to seeing the boy in person. She'd seen him before, in pictures. Pictures and videos that she could never, never extract from her mind. She'd thought making it stop, helping to make it stop, might bring her some sleep. It hadn't. The damage was still done, same as the images she could never unsee.

What was worse was that this one man had hundreds of thousands of images stored on hard-drives. This one man. This one child. She felt like she was trying to scoop out the ocean with a spoon. Starling wrapped the blanket around her shoulders tighter and toed on her slippers before getting out of bed. Naturally, couldn't help be reminded of those days down in the dungeon with Dr. Lecter.

No, not the dungeon. It was in Tennessee. She remembered how odd it had been to see him outside of his cage, even in this new one. The prefabricated cage they'd fashioned for him had seemed small in the atrium-like room. Even still, Dr. Lecter had not seemed small at all. Not in the cage and not in the room. He took up all the space wherever he was, he consumed the present. It would seem, Starling reflected, he consumed the past, too.

She thought of his eyes peering over his forearms, that look in his eyes as he hunched over, intentionally shifty, intentionally creepy. He taunted her this way, a reflection of her own deception. Then she'd told him everything, she scooped out her heart for him and he hadn't blinked, not once...

"_You still wake up sometimes, don't you? Wake up in the iron dark with the lambs screaming?"_

"_Sometimes."_

"_Do you think if you caught Buffalo Bill yourself and if you made Catherine all right, you could make the lambs stop screaming, do you think they'd be all right too and you wouldn't wake up again in the dark and hear the lambs screaming? Clarice?"_

"_Yes. I don't know. Maybe."_

"_Thank you, Clarice."_

He'd seemed so at peace afterwards. She'd fed him better than he'd been fed in years, of course. The obvious question now was, did she still wake up? Of course she did. She thought that this most recent experience, in part, may have been why she had ultimately burned Lecter's letter. My God, what could a bragging, needling letter to her mean in the bigger picture of things? He wasn't killing. She had made sure of that. She'd paid the price as always, and yes – she sometimes wondered if that made her some kind of a whore.

_Some kind of a whore, some kind of a…_

She hated that word. She hated it so much, even the sound of it without the connotations, without the meaning and heaviness in it. Surely this one thing, this act she performed (and would perform again a finite number of times), could not make her a 'whore'. She was not paid in money. She was paid in lives. Did that change things? Did it matter? _Your choices are subject to your judgment, and yours alone._

She realized she was standing in the middle of the dark kitchen in her slippers and pajamas, a blanket trailing behind her like a child. Where was she going? What was she doing? _A good question_, she answered herself dryly. After some scrounging in the pantry, she found hot chocolate mix. It seemed to fit her attire and mood. Coffee could wait.

In the living room she started to sit in the chair bythe window, as it had seemed like that would paint a pretty picture. It was fucking freezing by the window, though. She moved to the couch and tucked in her knees, cupped the mug beneath her chin and thought about whores and innocence and February. By the time Mapp was up, Starling had made breakfast and a decision. She was going to go to the library. Child, whore, monster—whatever she was at any given moment, she could do that. She could go to the library and read_ February_ by Margaret Atwood, and feel okay for awhile.

Starling carried a tumbler in one hand and a lumpy overcoat in the crook of an elbow as she scoured the bookshelves. She'd found _Alias Grace_, _The Handmaid's Tale_, _The Cat's Eye _and a few others, but none with_ February_. She couldn't remember the name of the book. She stood a moment, _The Edible Woman_ still in her hand, searching with tired eyes.

She tensed when a hand appeared in front of her, setting a book on the shelf facing out, in front of her. The title read: _After Eden_. She turned.

"I thought it might interest you. It's an anthology of anti-love poems," a young man said. She gave a quick, sweeping glance. Younger than her, twenty-three, maybe. Dark hair, long-limbed, tall and skinny. Knobby joints, a bit hairy. Nice smile. Long lashes, confident for his age and stature. Alright.

"I hope that's because I'm standing where I am."

"If you like Atwood…" he said, and shrugged.

"Do you work here?"

"Nope."

"I see."

"But I'm here a lot. Student. What are you looking for?"

"A poem, _February_. What do you study?"

"English Literature. You want _Morning in the Burned House_."

"English Literature?" she asked, crouching for a moment, finding the book and straightening up. "You're doomed, you know."

"We all are. Want to get some coffee?"

Starling put back _The Edible Woman_ and tucked _Morning in the Burned House_ under her arm. "Well, I was going to read this."

"You could buy it at a bookstore."

"Yep."

"I have a copy you can borrow."

"I think I'll just read it here, now. Like I planned," she said, with a wry grin.

"Okay. I can catch up studying. Then, do you want to get some coffee?"

"I have a lot to do today."

"Cool. Want to get some coffee?"

"Why don't you try starting out with a name."

He put out a hand, and she looked at it. "I'm James Lanka."

"Clarice Starling," she said, shaking his hand. "I'm going to go sit and read, now."

"Don't forget _After Eden_. You'll like it." He handed it to her. "If you don't, I won't ask you to get coffee, again."

"And I suppose if I do, you will?"

"Yep. I'll be over at that table," he said, nodding.

An hour later, he sat down across from her, and she looked up. He didn't say anything, but he caught his chin in the palm of his hand, waiting. She sighed and nodded.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay, you liked it? Okay, you'll get a coffee with me?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I'll get coffee with you."

"There's a café across the street. I'll meet you over there."

James Lanka was not Starling's type, but he wasn't her anti-type either, if there was such a thing. She wondered, at a certain point while chatting with him, if she had a type, at all. If she did, she wasn't sure what it was. It was easier to know what she didn't like than what she liked.

Starling didn't consider herself particularly proficient when it came to men and dating and sex, but didn't beat herself up about it. She'd seen some of the girls she'd gone to school with, when she was his age and younger. Some girls were there to learn proficiency at dating and sex. Starling hadn't been. She'd been busy for a long time, busy with what she'd deemed important to her. In those subjects with which she had experience, she was more than proficient. It was not indicative of a problem.

Starling remembered listening to an older girl talking about boys when she was about seventeen. It was her last year at the Lutheran Home. The girl hadn't been talking to Starling, but a group of other girls.

"Boys our age aren't people," the girl was saying. "You can't think of them that way. All they care about is getting their dicks wet, everything else is secondary. They'll do and say whatever they think might get them a chance with you." The girl had flipped her hair over her shoulder, then. Some remote part of Starling had been in awe of that simple gesture. She'd done it once in the mirror, and felt utterly ridiculous. "It's dangerous to think of boys as people," she'd gone on, "Boys aren't people until they're at least thirty, when all that crazy-making testosterone starts to fall. Until then, they're just filled with cum up to their eyeballs."

Starling wondered if there wasn't a tad bit of truth to her words, as vulgar and unfair as they'd been.

James was trying. It was not a very attractive display, but then again, she couldn't entirely blame him. She'd never considered a younger man, but hadn't written it off, either. Generally, she didn't think of men. But it occurred to her that while she couldn't separate young men from the human race as her childhood acquaintance had, younger men were easier to manage. There were probably exceptions to that rule, but she felt it was probably a safe assumption.

For the next six years and two months, her womanhood belonged to Dr. Lecter. She shuddered at the thought, and was glad of the cold as James walked her to her car a couple of hours later. Starling hadn't even decided if she would want to sleep with James Lanka, a fact he was probably acutely aware of. But even if she did decide she wanted to, she knew it was out of the question. So if she was going to waste a little time with someone of the opposite sex, better it be something closer to a boy than a man.

So when, a couple of weeks later, Starling had another free day, she found herself in James Lanka's company. He'd taken her to a dinner, and then they'd walked aimlessly a bit and eventually, he leaned in to kiss her while she stood in front of her car with her door open. She'd pivoted abruptly and found herself sitting in her car. She hadn't planned on dodging him that way, but what was done was very much done. She looked up at him, caught between apologetic and irritable.

"Goodnight! Thanks for dinner," she said, hoping she didn't sound terribly sheepish. He'd bit his lip and looked away nodding and smiling, dryly.

"You're welcome, Clarice. You know…"he'd begun, and Starling braced herself internally, and squeezed the wheel. "In spite of…what just happened, or…I suppose what just _didn't_ happen, I would like to see you again."

Starling swallowed and nodded. "Yeah, yes. Me too."

"When might that be?" he asked, with his head to the side. His posture and the surprisingly confident tone of his voice made her reconsider him.

"I don't know when I'll have another day off…" she said, tapping her thumb on the steering wheel.

"The night is relatively young, you know…"

"I…agree."

"You could get out of the car and get into mine. I wouldn't touch if you asked me not to."

Starling stared at her own white knuckles and then quietly got out of the car. She didn't look at him until she'd slammed the door shut and adjusted her purse. He smiled at her just a little, before leading her across the street.

In his sad little student apartment, they'd made out on his cheap sofa until his roommate came home. Then they'd moved into his room, and done a little more until his other roommate came home. Then Starling had bit his lip and said goodnight.

* * *

On Valentine's Day, Mapp came home late, and Starling paused a movie on the television.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey."

When Mapp was comfortably dressed and armed with tea and a ziploc bag of cookies, she sat next to Starling.

"What are we watching?"

"It's called Not a Love Story: A Film About Pornography."

Mapp laughed. "Interesting choice. Why aren't you with your new boy toy? What's his name, again?"

"James."

"Right, James. Shouldn't you and he be having a romantic steak dinner, or sixty-nine-ing, or something?"

"Well, we were going to eat steak and then sixty-nine, but decided it was too cliché. So instead, I'm watching a movie about porn, and he's studying for exams."

"That's really beautiful," Mapp said, putting her feet on the coffee table. "Sugar slop?"

"No thanks."

"You ever get the feeling love is dying?" Mapp asked.

"No."

Mapp swiveled her head around. "I thought I could trust you."

"Love is there, it's just ashamed of itself, sometimes. You have to watch for it, it hides between rocks. It's not all about couple-love, too. Believe me, I've met some parents who love their children. Love them enough they're broken inside if somebody hurts 'em," she said, pausing to take the cookie when Mapp offered it. "So, yeah. It may not always be the kind you're looking for, and it may be sandwiched between hate and cruelty, but it's there. It hides between rocks."

"You think you might head in that direction with Jim Bob?"

"You know his name is James, and not really. But he's good company and he doesn't whine when I leave early."

"That's what we call, 'good enough'. Talked to Crawford today, by the way."

"Oh, yeah?" Starling said with her mouth full.

"Umm-hmm. Said you're taking some time off in April. Why's he know before me?"

"Because he had to okay it _this morning_," Starling said, chuckling. "You are the most territorial friend I think I've ever had."

"Okay, okay. Sorry."

"No, it's okay. Turns me on, actually."

"Meow," Mapp said, and shut the Ziploc bag. "Should stop."

"Should."

Mapp reopened it. "Had a shitty day."

"No, why?"

Mapp shrugged, "give it a little time. I need to distance myself from it before talking about it."

"Got it."

"Where you going in April?"

Starling paused, watching the scene in the movie. A nude woman in pigtails was bent over on a stage, her ass on display to the laughing men, below. She covered herself with a hand and looked at them from between her legs. "Like a Cracker Jack box with the prize in it, ey?" the woman said.

"Monterey."

"What kind of a movie is this, Starling?"

"It's not a love story, but a film about pornography."

"Smart ass," she said, standing and stretching. From the kitchen, Mapp said something over her shoulder amongst the sounds of cabinets and dishes, and Starling craned her neck.

"What did you say?"

Mapp came into the room holding a tumbler in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other. "I said, that wasn't all Crawford told me."

"Oh," Starling said, eyeing Mapp's provisions. "Is it that kind of night? You had me worried at cookies."

"Oh, it's that kinda night."

"You'll tell me about it, sometime?"

"Yeah. Some time," she said. "About Crawford—oh, do you want a glass?"

"Hit me."

"Alright."

When they were both seated, drinks in hand, Mapp huffed when she sat on the couch and tucked in her bare feet. "Right. Crawford told me about what happened with the Polenta case."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, but he didn't give me details. So they found the husband?"

"Yep. In Colorado, hiding up in the mountains."

"And he did it."

"Yep. He crumbled under questioning, told us where to find Paul's body. Apparently, he nearly caught them again in their hotel room. They managed to get their pants up before he barged in, but it was clear what happened. Paul went out the damn window, but left his things in the room. Richard aimed his weapon at Paul, who was climbing out of the window and Fran flung herself in front of him. I don't think he meant to kill her. He goes to her, has his little moment, 'Oh, what have I done, yadda, yadda.' Meanwhile, Richard nearly escapes. He followed him all the way to Nevada before catching up with him."

"Right. Well, what I heard was that Richard asked to speak with you, after he was in custody."

"Yeah. He said I was the only person he knew of in the country who had spoken with his father-in-law."

"So what happened?"

"I went. We talked," Starling said, pausing to take a sip of the drink. "That's a damn good mojito. Anyway, he asked me to relay a message. Basically, that he really did love Fran. He wanted him to know he hadn't meant to kill her."

"That's it?"

"That, and he left me with a special little sentiment," she said, sighing. "He said, 'I may rot in prison, but my traitor of a brother and whore of a wife will burn in hell for eternity.'"

"And some people say love is dead."

The same stripper on the television screen was in an interview, now. She wore a comfortable sweater and jeans, the camera from behind the interviewer's head.

"It's a very honest arena," the woman was saying. "They may be guilt-ridden and this and that," she said, her hand making the gestures of a politician, "but they certainly act on a very animal level."

"Fair enough," was Mapp's response. "We're animals, at the end of the day."

Starling blew air out of her pursed lips, making pieces of her hair flutter around her face, and she let her head fall back. _We're animals at the end of the day. _Right.

* * *

Dr. Lecter was pleased with the location he'd chosen for his upcoming visit with Clarice Starling. The images of the scene danced in his mind's eye the whole trip back into Austria, and even on into the night after arriving home. It would be cold, too. He liked that. It would suit his purposes. They would have solitude as well, that was for certain. Their complete isolation was key.

He found himself sitting at his desk after unpacking and showering. He walked out of the bathroom trailing a bit of steam into the chilly hallway. His stationary was still there, and he wondered what a letter from Clarice might look like.

He sat down slowly, ignoring the phone when it first began to ring. He was in casual slacks and socks, for the cold floor, but he hadn't put a shirt on yet. He stood erect, his shoulders still slick and a little rosy from the hot water and steam. The cold air felt good, if not a little biting. Perhaps that would be the nature of a letter from Starling, he mused. He wondered if she'd ever return his letters, as he gazed down at the photo of her he'd clipped from a tabloid.

She had apparently been investigating a missing federal official, but that was clearly a bit of a euphemism. What she'd been doing was covering a media-frenzied double murder involving a prolific business man's infamously adulterous daughter. There was a picture of the daughter too, but Dr. Lecter only glanced at it, as well as the photo of the perpetrator, now in custody.

"They will burn in hell for eternity!" the tabloid exaggerated a quote.

The photo of Starling was small, and she stood flanked between two other agents. After cutting out her image, it was small even in the palm of his hand. He picked it up and put it there now as he slowly sat, looking at her face cradled in his hand.

He picked up the ringing phone on the fifth ring.

"Dr. Boucher."

"Herr Doctor, it's Etienne. I know you said I couldn't reach you for a time, but…"

"What is it?"

"Well, something's happened."

"Go on."

"Well, they've caught each other, the Strobls."

"And?"

"It was rather nasty."

"Did you blackmail them?"

"Yes," she said hesitantly. It was odd to hear the word said out loud, in such casual conversation.

"How much did you ask for?"

"Two hundred thousand," Etienne said, her voice softened.

"You could have asked for three."

"I think so, too. They agreed very quickly. And asked me what I would do with it."

"What _will_ you do with it?"

"I'm going to get my PhD."

"Good girl. What else?"

"Well…there's been a bit of a…tragedy."

"Ah. Please go on."

"Alright, let me explain what happened."

What Etienne told Dr. Lecter began with Joseph Strobl catching his wife bent over his desk in front of Adrian Baur. Scrambling, stuttering and red faces ensued. When Joseph called Adrian a bottom-feeding home wrecker, Adrian proclaimed to everyone that he had only done it to practice for Valerie. Joseph, in turn, delighted in confessing that he had been sleeping with Valerie. Valerie, who stood nearby in the hallway came forward, and confessed that she was a prostitute. When a furious Joseph demanded to know who had paid her, she only shrugged and pursed her lips.

At this point, Etienne made her appearance from the side door and, taking a look at everyone, announced her intentions. Joseph called his wife a stupid whore, who called Etienne a conniving snake, who smiled at an indifferent Valerie, while a shocked and humiliated Adrian stared slack-jawed at the divan.

Upon hearing all of this, Rita Steiner had an extreme reaction. She had apparently been spending time with Adrian in a platonic fashion, and had fallen in love with him. It had also turned out, to everyone's shock besides Dr. Lecter's, that Rita had been taking antidepressants and antipsychotics to treat psychotic depression. Wagner found her dead bowed over her oven door three days before Dr. Lecter's return to Vienna.

"You should go and see him. He hasn't seen anybody."

"Yes, I'll go at once."

"Herr Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"I suppose I should say thank you. It feels quite dirty to say it now, after what's happened. But gratitude is still in order. So, thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Frau Alorie. I'm sure we'll be in touch. Goodbye, now."

"Goodbye."

He hung up the phone without looking. His eyes were still focused on Starling's face. He was not entirely comfortable with how often he'd been thinking of her. He was not entirely comfortable with the _ways_ he was thinking of her.

Dr. Lecter had only been to Wagner's home three times. After he'd knocked on the door for several minutes, he pulled out a customized house key and a small screw driver. He inserted the key into the lock and gave it ten taps, before it opened.

Inside, there was music playing from somewhere in the house. Wagner's home was not as large as his own, but it was big enough that he was not certain from which direction it was coming.

The stairs greeted him in the foray, which split into two directions. To the left was a living room connecting to a kitchen and dining room. To the right was a study, connecting to a wet bar and the dining room. He went upstairs, stopping at the top and listened. Here, there was a living room with a large television, four bedrooms and a bathroom, and a second staircase at the end of the hall which lead down to the kitchen.

On the third story, there was a single, large bedroom with a billiards table, a small bed, and a bathroom.

Dr. Lecter walked down the hall to the third floor staircase and placed a hand on the banister. He could hear a dog barking. The staircase wound around until he faced west, and he peered up at the top. The door was cracked open with a light on. The music grew in volume. He'd recognized it before, but now, he moved his hand along with it in the air, keeping count like a conductor. It was _Masonic Funeral Music in C minor_ by Mozart.

Dr. Lecter's hand in the stairwell light, moving back and forth, palm up, palm down, his foot making one of the steps creak, and the dog barking, barking barking. When he pushed open the door, he stood at the top a moment, one hand at his back, the other still conducting the music as he took in the scene.

The little black dog on the floor in the middle of the room, skipping from one side of a tipped footstool to the other, yipping and whining and now looking at Dr. Lecter and barking at him. Wagner himself was hanging from a good, smooth piece of nylon rope, which he'd expertly tied to the beam above. Unfortunately for Wagner, he had not given himself a good drop; therefore his neck had not broken. Instead, he'd hung there for about eight long, painful, anxiety-stricken minutes and died from hypoxia causing cardiac arrest. His face was pale and slightly swollen, with a bit of saliva leaking from his mouth. Dr. Lecter stayed where he was until the piece ended.

He seemed to notice the dog, then. He took a knee and pulled out a bag with some leftover pieces of ham, and offered one to the panicked dog. The dog sniffed, looking at Lecter, and then looked back at its recently deceased master, barking, barking, then sniffing, sniffing. He came forward, and Dr. Lecter scratched his head while he ate. He examined the collar on the dog's neck. It read: Cerberus.

"A good name," said Dr. Lecter. He smiled at the dog, and gave him another piece of ham. Dr. Lecter laughed, looking back at Wagner, his eyes bulging slightly, glassy and empty.


	10. Chapter 10

On a Wednesday afternoon, Starling paced the hotel room at the Monterey Bay Inn. Her window looked out onto the ocean, where the setting sun turned the water orange and the beach goers into happy, black specks on the beach. Her drapes were shut.

Eventually, she fired up the laptop she'd just bought at the nearest Radio Shack, and wrung her hands. The round-trip plane tickets to Sogndal varied between $3,280 and $3,450. Lecter had not mentioned that.

"What the…" she murmured, running a hand through her hair. In a strange way, she had a moment of gratitude. She had traded feeling terrified for feeling angry. She'd take that deal, any day.

One year ago, she'd created a fake email account for the purpose of communication, if that became necessary. She logged on to see any messages. Amongst the spam, she found one email, sent nearly two months ago. It was itinerary for her flight the following day. There was no note attached, and the sender was from a Charles Closter.

Starling closed her eyes. One, she could have bought it herself. Two, the fear was back. At least, she reflected, there was still some anger, there. But it wasn't fear for her life. Where the fear came from was a place Starling could not name. Yet, it was there, nonetheless—making her knees wobble and her mouth dry and the small of her back slick.

The flight left at 5:40 in the morning the following day, and stopped at Heathrow Airport for a one hour layover. She was not expecting to be on a plane that early. She checked for other flights, and realized why it had come down to this one. All of the others had long layovers, several of which were overnight. This wretched flight he'd chosen was the best there was, and she put her head in her hands and growled just once, quietly, into her balmy palms. She wasn't sure why. She steadied herself, and looked at the rest of the flight, her face pale in the blue light.

It would take her ten hours to cross an ocean. Then there would be one more stop at Oslo, at which point she would catch her final flight to Sogndal Airport, Haukåsen, arriving at ten after six in the morning. Norway time, on Friday. To her, it would be nine at night, the previous day. If that did not aid in making what was to follow feel like out of time and reality, she did not know what would.

Their reunion was an odd one, and not what either expected or planned. By the time Starling's flight landed, right on time at ten after six in the morning, she was as tired as she had ever been. She was so tired that, by the time she was on her third plane, she was no longer filled with anxiety. Each worry, each panic-inducing scenario that ravaged her mind fell away. Like crumbs cast into a park pond, each morsel floating on the surface either plucked or descended below, one by one. She could not hold onto them.

There was a distant pulse of panic, nerves or excitement in her gut as she exited the plane. Another as she walked through the terminal, and she felt cocooned by the strangers around her, blanketed from the stares ahead from those who greeted them.

Then she saw him. He stood among them, near one of the widows. He stood with his hands in his pockets and wore no expression, which soothed her. His overcoat was long, down to his ankles, his hair slick beneath a merino wool felt hat. His shoes were shiny, even in the ghastly airport lights. Unlike the others he did not wave or come forward, only gave a bow of his head and waited. Starling had no idea how she looked, and glad she didn't care.

Suddenly, she was standing in front of him, watching him look her over.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning."

"Come," he said, removing his hands from his pockets and directing her away from the crowd. "I have water and a little food in my car."

She thought then that she must look like a refugee, and drifted along next to him like wayward luggage with a screwy wheel.

She knew it would be cold and had worn her thick, wool coat. She'd neglected to wear a scarf or even bring gloves, so she pushed her hands in her pockets and tucked her chin in as they left the airport and the frigid, morning air hit her with the force of cold water. The complete obliviousness of others bothered her just a little, as they walked to his car. His pace was quick, but not too quick for her. The cold, the haste of his stride and the general sense of falling took her from the airport to his car. It carried her from a world without Hannibal Lecter in it, to a world deluged by him.

She watched him load her meager luggage into his backseat.

_Whore_.

She watched him open the door for her and she collapsed inside, the door smooth and muted as it closed. She was alone for a few beats and she watched him walk around, a chipper, prowling wilder in his gait and mood. Now that she'd watched him a bit she saw beyond the lack of expression. He was pleased. He was…happy?

_Traitor._

She was so tired, she could not even tense when he was seated next to her. He leaned over and took out a water bottle from the glove compartment and a small, tin box.

"Drink. Eat. We'll have a more filling breakfast when we arrive at our destination, unless you'd like to sleep."

"Sleep," Starling said. It was not an answer or even a response; she only repeated the thing that sounded good, so good. The anxiety had kept her awake through the whole trip and now, exhausted by both travel and apprehension, it was all she wanted. Sleep. When she only held the bottle and tin box in her lap, he put the car back into park and unscrewed the lid of the water bottle for her.

"Drink it, Clarice. Then you can sleep."

She looked at it, and wondered if she was already asleep.

"Five sips," he added. He watched her obey, and when she was finished, he recapped it.

Starling slept for the four and a half hour drive. Dr. Lecter looked at her as often as traffic lights permitted.

It had been raining for awhile, and stopped only twice for a few minutes. It was nearly cold enough for more snow. It was beginning to rain again, when the car turned and slowed. Starling roused briefly, and looked out of the window. There was old snow on the ground, which was becoming a sloshy mess in the slowly warming weather and rain. It began raining harder just as they were pulling into the driveway. Not even the groaning of the garage door lifted her eyelids. They were so very heavy. Some little part of her was awake enough to know they had arrived somewhere, that the car had stopped, that there was a tinny roaring outside, and that the passenger's door was opening. She felt his hand, warm on her shoulder.

"Clarice. Here, take my hand. That's right, up you go."

She leaned into him until they reached the door, when she let go of him and watched him unlock it.

"I've rented the entire cabin, so it's just us," he was saying.

"There are six bedroom, two baths, a kitchen and two lounges. We'll sleep in the largest bedroom nearest to the kitchen. Tonight, you can have your own room, assuming that's your preference," he continued, leading her inside. They were in the kitchen, an open space shared with a living room. The fire was not lit, yet. He deposited her onto the sofa, and Starling immediately laid down in the fetal position, found a fur throw and hugged it to her chest.

"I'll be back shortly. I need to check us in with the lockbox."

"Okay."

Starling looked at the unlit fireplace and drifted for a bit. Later, her eyes opened again to see Dr. Lecter sitting with his back to her. The fireplace had a raised, stone hearth that wrapped around one side of it. Dr. Lecter sat on it, leaning forward to light the fire. She could smell the wood begin to burn. A candle was lit on the corner of the hearth, in a tall taper. Her eyes closed again.

_Jezebel, Judas, whore, traitor._

* * *

When she woke again, she woke to sounds and smells in the kitchen. For just a moment, she thought she was home, and Mapp was cooking up a storm. And then her life with Ardelia Mapp, the FBI and all of the other debris that went with it was the dream.

It was lighter out now, but not as light as she would have thought. It was still raining. She sat up and rubbed her eye for a good, long minute. When she stood, she stretched enough she made a little squawk, and Dr. Lecter's head came up.

"Good morning, again," he said, and she turned to look at him and nod.

"Morning."

"You need to eat as soon as possible," he said, watching her come to sit on a barstool across from him. His sleeves were rolled up and his hands were working something in a bowl."Luckily for you," he continued," you are going to eat very well, this weekend."

"Weekend," she repeated.

"Are your communication skills still that rudimentary? Yes, Clarice. Weekend. Today is Friday morning, tomorrow is Saturday. I have you for three whole days and two _nights_," he said. His teeth seemed almost to bite on the word.

"Yes, I know," she said, irritably. Before she could go on, she heard scratching from somewhere, and she stood up, nearly knocking the stool over.

"Ah, yes. We have a guest, this time. I would have told you before, but you were indisposed," he said. She was already darting down the hallway, and he smiled to himself.

Starling stood outside of a closed bedroom door, her hand on her throat. The horrors her mind suggested made every muscle in her body tense. She imagined opening the door to find some dismembered person having crawled to the door, their eyes and mouths sewn shut, perhaps. Batting helplessly at the door with a mangled hand. The image was absurd, she knew in her rational mind. Her body didn't listen to reason, and her heart pounded.

Scratch, scratch.

_Whore, Jezebel, traitor!_

She opened the door with her hand over her mouth, and a dog immediately ran out, circled around her once, jumped on her legs, and circled again, barking, its nails clacking on the hardwood floors. Starling looked at it, looked in the room, down the hall, and back at the dog. It wagged its tail and hopped up on its hind legs. She crouched down and gave its head a ruffle.

"Well, fuck me," she murmured. "Come on," she said, walking back down the hallway.

"You have a dog, now?" she asked him, standing in the middle of the living room. She looked around for a moment, as though the furniture would somehow explain this new absurdity.

"I wish you wouldn't have let him out. He'll get underfoot while I'm cooking."

"I'm not sorry," she said. After a moment, she realized what she'd said and looked at him. He was looking at her with his head to the side. "I think I must have decided I wouldn't lie," she explained," I almost said I was sorry, but I wasn't. So…"she shrugged, offering her palms.

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Enjoy your kitchen mate," she said, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire. She looked over her shoulder when he came into the living room holding a chilled Collins glass. He handed it to her.

"What is it?"

"It's called a Pimm's Cup Royale."

She sniffed it. "Whoa, what's in this?"

"Cognac, peach liqueur and champagne."

"Jesus. That's awfully heavy duty for—what time is it?"

"Half past noon, here. To you, it's about four in the afternoon."

"Oh. When you put it that way…" she took a sip. "Ummm, okay. This is really good."

"I'll never put anything in your mouth you won't like."

"You have, before," she said, and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth.

"You certainly are without a filter, today," he said from the kitchen, and she turned to look at him. Her hand fell to her lap.

"I-I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from. It was rude. I think."

"Nothing matters, not here," Dr. Lecter said, dashing her worries with a flick of his head." Be what you are. I find it charming, actually. And flattered you haven't forgotten."

"It was only a year ago," Starling said. She could hear the clicking of the dog's claws scurrying all around the kitchen, now. Dr. Lecter sighed, irritably. Starling smiled, first; a small burst of air escaped through her nose, and then a full-blown laugh.

"Interesting that my irritation is so amusing to you."

"Isn't it?"

"Come here and eat, my little sadist."

The voice in Starling's head, not quite her own, leapt once again to torment her.

_My little sadist…my little doxy! _

She shivered at the memory of his name for her, on that night. He called her that all night. It was as though for one night, that's what she became, he transformed her into 'little doxy' with those words.

_Little doxy. Little whore. _

Her smile faded. She was not allowed to smile. She was not allowed to laugh or enjoy herself, not here, not in this place, not with _him_. If she was to be his _little fucking doxy_, she would not, could not enjoy it. She could at least manage that, couldn't she?

When she was sitting at the table, the dog jumped up on her leg, whining. Dr. Lecter looked at him. The dog whined once, and then sat down. Starling considered the dog. It was a puppy, not a small dog. It was all muscle, she saw. Dense.

"What kind of dog is that? It looks like it might be a Rottweiler."

"It is."

"Why in God's name do you have a dog?"

"I took it off someone's hands. His owner tragically perished."

Starling looked at him sharply. Dr. Lecter smiled and placed a plate of food in front of her. "I didn't kill him."

"What is this?" she asked, ready to tuck in before he even answered.

"Caramelized apple crepes."

"My God, this looks good."

"It is."

A few minutes and seven bites later, "Why such a decadent brunch?"

"An excellent choice of words," said Dr. Lecter. He held up a finger, before going on. She suddenly realized they'd never eaten like this. Not together, right across from one another at a reasonably sized kitchen table. Odd.

He took another bite, chewed, swallowed, took a sip of his drink and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. "Decadence," he began again, raising his glass," is the word of the weekend. You and your little low-ceiling life, Clarice, are going to have a break in routine. Today, tonight and tomorrow will fill you, in every conceivable manner," he said, looking deeply into her eyes. She couldn't bare it, and looked away.

"Clarice."

"Yes?"

He wagged his drink midair, and she clinked her own with it, quickly.

"I still don't understand why you have a dog. I would never see you taking responsibility for another creature, like that. Do you pick up its poop?" she couldn't help asking. He blinked slowly, and she could have sworn he made effort not to smile; his lips parted for a moment, the tip of his tongue touching the center of his upper lip as he briefly looked away.

"Clarice, let's discuss things like feces when we're not eating, yes?"

"Fair enough," she agreed, and after a moment,"I hope you do."

A few quiet moments passed as they ate. The patter of rain and the crackling of the fire calmed some of Starling's nerves, but she found the presence of the dog to be the major influence in her increasing calm. _That and this drink_, she thought.

"What's his name? It's a boy?" she wondered.

"Yes. His name is Cerberus."

"Of course it is."

Dr. Lecter raised his glass to his lips, watching her over the rim of the cup. Starling swallowed.

"I apologize if what I put in your mouth last year offended you, Clarice," he said, setting the glass down. Starling didn't look at him, cleared her throat and focused on her food. He went on."I'm even sorrier that you found your own taste offensive."

"Stop."

"I, for one, find you to taste quite good."

"Stop it."

"Sweet and tangy like a peach vinaigrette."

"I said,_ stop_," Starling said, keeping her voice low, calm, her eyes still cast down. She pressed her fork into the crepe and it leaked and oozed, sweet and sticky.

"A little musky, like bourbon."

Starling's fork clattered against the plate, and she met her forehead with a hand, rubbed her temple, and Cerberus barked and wagged his tail. She felt his paws on her calf.

"Down," Dr. Lecter said in a low voice. The paws retreated. "Clarice, we need to talk about your recently developed self-hatred."

"Do we, now?"

"Look at me. If you can look at me while I tell you how good you taste, if you can look at me and feel alright, I'll leave it alone."

She raised her head. "Wouldn't it be something if I could just enjoy this nice breakfast you made?"

Dr. Lecter regarded her, his head leaning back a micron. What an exceptional, graceful way to forbid him, he considered. He let out the smallest puff of air through his nose, though Starling didn't know what it meant, and didn't care. He nodded once, and left her alone.

When they were finished, Starling was more or less dismissed to the living room while Dr. Lecter took care of the dishes. Cerberus followed her and she was glad for the company. He hopped up onto the couch next to her, his small body warm and dense against her thigh. She put a hand on his back and gave him a few strokes.

"Yeah, you're a good boy," she said, and he poked her palm with his cold, wet nose. "On the head? Alright."

"I thought you two might get along," Dr. Lecter said from the kitchen.

"Yeah, well. This guy's easy."

"Ah, is that the root of our troubles, Clarice? I'm not easy?"

Starling snorted. "If only that was the root of our _issues_."

Dr. Lecter's voice suddenly right behind her made Starling jump. "Isn't it exhausting to pretend you despise me?"

Starling didn't response, and kept her eyes on the dog. She smiled at him, soft and sad, and scratched behind his ear.

"Clarice, if you don't want to talk to me about something, use your words. Don't ignore me. I will not tolerate it."

"I don't despise you," she finally said, nearly a whisper.

"And that bothers you." He came around to sit next to her.

"No."

"How was your breakfast?"

"Very good."

"Good. Now, we will discuss first your masochism, then your sadism."

"I am _not_ a sadist," she said, looking at him, incredulously.

"You have sadistic qualities, and it's better to address them now, before they begin scheming without your consent or knowledge—but don't get ahead. First, your masochism. _Do not_ pretend to be ignorant of it."

For a long time, Starling was quiet. By the time she spoke, the dog was asleep and the rain had stopped.

"How can I not hate myself a little for what I've done?"

"When did the hate start?"

Starling held her shoulders for a moment, thinking. "It wasn't immediate," she said, nodding at his implication. "It took some time to sink in. At first, it didn't seem real."

"No. It didn't," Dr. Lecter agreed.

"It was as though what had happened was so surreal, so beyond measure or coping, it could not be delegated by my mind as reality. It wasn't true disassociation, but not unlike it, either. But I had the memories, and I thought of them often enough, I guess it started to seem more real. They were bookmarked and became dog-eared, and it shifted closer and closer to being categorized as reality. That took a few months."

"And what did you feel?"

Starling laughed, dryly. "Buyer's remorse."

"I don't think that's true."

"Not entirely. I did go through a phase of being horrified that I'd made a terrible mistake, and there were certainly days I considered breaking our contract, and not showing up here. But I think, even when I thought that, I knew I would come. I knew I would follow through."

"Failing to follow through is not in your repertoire."

"No, it isn't. More than that, I thought…" Starling swallowed, and rubbed her palms along her pants.

"Yes?"

"Then…if I did break the contract, I did…what I did-for nothing."

Dr. Lecter breathed in and out quickly, just once. Sensing some kind of shift in the conversation, Starling finally looked at him. He smiled at her for a moment.

"Let's get something out of the way. It may be challenging."

Starling sighed. "When is it not?"

"Clarice, I want you to make an effort to answer the following question truthfully. Will you do that?"

"Yes," she said, slowly.

"Clarice, did you _enjoy_ the things I did to you?"

She looked away, immediately. It wasn't because she couldn't look at him, knowing he knew the answer. It was because at the mention of it, at the mention of _the things he did to her_, she felt a distinct chirp, inside. A hot, thorny flick where such a sensation should not exist in the presence of this man, and _(God!) _not in response to _those…things…he did._

_WHORE._

She heard an odd, quivering burp of a sound, and her hand shot up to her mouth, realizing she'd made it. The tears were so unexpected; she stood abruptly, looking around. She could not stop them. They would not be stopped and she sought an exit. She could not fathom weeping in front of him. He would enjoy it, he would revel in it, he would slurp it up.

"Clarice."

He was blocking her way and she turned around, but his hands stopped her. She pushed at him and his hands became tighter. She covered her face. The stubbornness she felt did not abandon her, she clung to it too tightly, but it changed alliances. Now, she _would not_ flee. No, she would not flee the room, tail between her legs, like a child. If she was to cry, she would stand here and do it. Let him feast. Fuck it all. Fuck it all.

_TRAITOR._

Minutes went by, and she listened to the sounds she made and hated them. Minutes went by, and she found she was sitting again, and there were arms, and she grabbed hold of them. Long, long minutes went by and the tears that began the tantrum were not the same tears that ended it. Her face was wet and swollen and pressed against something stiff and soft. Her hands, she realized were tired and aching, her nails embedded into skin. Not her skin. She breathed steadily for a time, gathering herself back together slowly, patiently. She leaned back, and looked for a few moments at the wet spot on Dr. Lecter's shirt. She sniffed.

"Sorry."

She felt a hand cup her chin and she let it guide her face up to look at him.

"You are not a whore," he said.

"What?" she asked, bewildered.

"You are NOT a whore. Do you understand me?"

"Did I—"

"Over and over again. Among other things. I'm glad it's out of you. Those things do not belong in you. That's why they spilled so easily."

"But…you called me your little doxy. How am I your doxy but not a whore?"

"Oh, Clarice," he said, his thumb stroking her cheek. "A doxy is a loaded word. A whore means only one thing: a whore. It is also a very derogatory word. Doxy, on the other hand, has multiple meanings. It can be used to mean a prostitute or a mistress, yes. But it can also be used to mean a sweetheart, a lover, a non-courtly love affair. It also has a distinct, separate meaning, _a defined opinion_. I used the word doxy for a reason, and I'm sorry that reason was not apparent.

"You are not a whore. You are not _my_ whore. You are my doxy, my infrequent lover. You are my little doxy, my wayward beloved. You are my doxy…my headstrong, brave, _defined opinion_. I will not apologize for calling you that, and I will not stop calling you that, because I know what it means to me, and now you do, too."

Starling looked at him, knowing she may have never been so ugly in her life, and felt okay. He let go of her face and neither spoke, but each unraveled themselves from one another and sat back in their seats. They looked at each other, looked deep, and the rain came back and the ground outside was a filthy slush that began to spread.

* * *

Something was happening. . .

Dr. Lecter kept himself very still. She'd fallen asleep, again. He would wake her in a few hours if necessary. He hoped she would not sleep very long. She was beautiful asleep, it was true. But he preferred her active; her eyes open, aware, looking at him, thinking, feeling. He only had a few days. Only a few precious days with her.

Something was happening. . .

Dr. Lecter kept himself very still. A strange, faraway thumping disrupted his thoughts from time to time. A tribal, primitive sort of drumming that came from inside his own body, his own palace. It wasn't _really_ a sound, he knew. It was a feeling, a feeling he grappled to reconcile, a feeling he could not oppose, nor accept. This feeling was abhorrent, cruel and pitiless. This feeling was inexorable, urgent and exquisite. He could not yet endure to _feel_ its approach; he could only hear it, like the remote advancing of a stampede. The steady, muted sound of horses, or war drums on the hills. Some..._thing_ was happening. . .

Dr. Lecter kept himself very still, and when Starling's eyes fluttered open, she frowned. He sat where he'd been before; he had not moved an inch. He was watching her, _had been_ watching her, but that was not why she frowned. She frowned because Dr. Lecter looked alarmed. The moment passed very quickly, and she wondered if she had not understood what she'd seen.

Dr. Lecter had his head leaning against his hand in the crook of his forefinger and thumb. The finger on his temple pulled his eyebrow up in a parody expression of conceit. His lips parted and his cheek flinched. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

There was a conservatory on the other side of the cabin. To combat the cold that the long-spanning windows let in, there were hanging furnaces, and Dr. Lecter led Starling to one. He sat down on a timber bench and patted the seat next to him.

Outside, it was snowing. The hills, sugar maples, hazels and hollies all covered, and a short distance away, a herd of reindeer.

"Are those-"

"Reindeer, yes," Dr. Lecter nodded. "There's a Sámi reindeer herder not far from this property. He takes guests on hikes and will let you feed them, if you pay." He seemed to consider, and she stole a glance at him. His eyes were slightly narrowed. "Would you like to see them?" he finally asked. He looked at her after a moment and she looked on, as though he'd grown horns.

"That's okay," she said, slowly. He looked away. "Thank you, though," she added. Her belly twitched.

He inhaled sharply and Starling rolled her shoulders. "I find that a change of scenery can sometimes help in a potentially harsh segue. I want to talk about the inverse of your split matrix. The sadism."

"Why do you think I'm a sadist? Because I thought it was funny a dog annoyed you? Because I liked the thought of you doing a low kind of drudgery like picking up after a pet?"

"No, no. You liked those things because it made me seem more human to you. Then you were upset, because you realized you didn't want to think of me that way. That's to do with you and me, but we're not talking about that, now. We're talking about your tendencies towards sadism, and how it connects with your affinity for masochism. Your masochism, by the way, goes beyond your most recent affiliation with debasing yourself. That was only a branch broken off from the larger body of water."

"What is the large body of water?"

"Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'a glutton for punishment'?"

Starling didn't say anything, but folded her hands in her lap and stared at them.

"You know what I'm talking about, Clarice. You've known it, you've investigated it, and you've even cornered it. But revelations are disappointingly unceremonious when no action follows it, aren't they? There is a great gulf between comprehending something and applying that new knowledge in life."

"Yeah," Starling agreed. "I know. But I think part of the reason I don't do anything about it is because I'm afraid I'd be in danger of trading it for something worse. At least if I'm a glutton for punishment, I'm not hurting anyone else."

"There it is," he said, smiling softly. "You'd sooner hurt yourself than someone else. Now, the other thing you mentioned is also pivotal to this discussion, Clarice. You said, 'I'm afraid I'd be in danger of trading it in for something else.' Now, if you were so very confident in your desire to protect others, so confident in your inability to harm others for self-gain or spite or even pleasure, why are you afraid of letting go of this splinter in your subconscious? Some part of you, Clarice, is afraid that that splinter is a load-bearing wall in your house. You're afraid if you remove it, it will all come crumbling down, and then-"

"No, I-"

"And then, Clarice, you'd be-"

"Dr. Lecter-"

"You would be like me. You protect the world from you. You can feel that power, can't you? Can't you feel the potential, the might, the supremacy, the _hunger_?"

"Yes," she said, more piercing then she had intended, and she winced at her own voice. "Yes," she said, more softly, "I can feel it. And I know what you want, and it will never, never happen," she said. She looked at him, then. "Never," she repeated, and he inclined his head.

"Never is quite a long time," he answered, smiling.

"It's never. It is beyond time. Do you hear me? We'll never be together that way, not in this life."

"Ummm," Dr. Lecter, considered. "Is this life, Clarice? Right now, you and I? Could you bear it?"

"I don't know."

"It _is_ what you make of it. If it's real, it's real because you say it. If it is a dream within a dream, you make it so with your words. People mismanage their words. They don't assign the appropriate level of power they contain, our spoken words are incantations! Your mind hears your words, it hears the ones you repeat the most. That's conditioning. In so doing, you make yourself with your words. What do you want this to be? What do you need it to be, even if it's just for now? Allow yourself the luxury of naming this moment, and being its creator."

"Okay," she started, running a hand through her hair."A dream, then. It's just a dream."

"A dream. Then nothing you do here matters. Nothing holds weight, and you can be what you need to be, if even for a little while. You need to experience those parts of yourself, Clarice. You need to get to know those parts, you must accept them. So long as you try to keep them locked away, they will whisper and haunt you. You hear those words, too. Those whispered words will drive the undercurrents of your thoughts and feelings, and thoughts and feelings will drive you to action. One day you'll find yourself in predicaments you don't understand, and you'll find someone else to blame. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Starling ignored the question. She was looking out of the window, her eyes suddenly alert to some idea. When she spoke, she spoke slowly. "Is that what this visit will be about?" she asked the snowfall. She looked at him, and he noted that her pupils were dilated.

Dr. Lecter had seen Starling look her best. He'd seen her eyes bright and curious as a child's. He'd seen her hair shine, her face animated. He'd seen her stunning in a gown, and he'd seen her disrobed in the dark and in the light. This moment could not compare, he decided. Her hands wrung in her lap. Her hair was ragged, frizzy from the rain and sleeping and crying. Her eyes were still a little red around the edges, her parted lips were a little swollen. Her clothes were wrinkled. He could smell her sweat and her fear. _But, oh!_ What looked out of those ravaged eyes was alive, and how they burned! Her eyes moved rapidly back and forth for an instant, a strange, feathery movement. He wondered if he focused, if he practiced, he could smell what she _felt_. Perhaps one day, he could even smell her appetite. What would that smell be like? He decided that if her appetite had a fragrance, he may very well blackout.

Dr. Lecter took her hands in his and she looked at them, her growing alarm like the slow escalation of the coming blizzard, for which neither was entirely prepared. "Tonight will be about the exploration of these two selves. They have been living in a cage. Tomorrow night, we will unlock it. Tomorrow night you will meet them, and so will I."

"Dr. Lecter," she started, a note of formidable warning stretched taut as a canvas around an almost tender, vulnerable voice.

"Don't be afraid," he said.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. She didn't want to ask, but she had to. "I need to know."

"It's not just what _I'll_ do, Clarice."

"Tell me what you're going to do to me."

"You know what I'm going to do to you."

"NO!" Starling pulled her hands out of his. She had never spoken to him that way, before. "Tell me," she said, lowering her voice, trying to take the edge out of it.

"Do you see? Do you see this reaction you're having? Are you more afraid of what I might do or what you might do?"

"I don't want to command you. I don't want to control you. You're the one who-"

"Quiet," he said, his voice suddenly dark. Starling held her hands in her lap. She was suddenly aware of being cold. His voice had frightened her, and it was distressing. His voice had never frightened her. It had thrilled her, pierced and probed her and even aroused her. If she was terribly honest with herself, and she felt self-honesty was becoming an important part of surviving this covenant, he had aroused her with that voice since the beginning. She had to believe that didn't make her depraved. Or maybe it did, and that was another thing she would have to process. But amidst all those feelings he had elicited, fear had not been one of them. She could be afraid of what he may see in her face or hear in her voice. She could be afraid of what insights he could make, but fearing his disfavor was a new kind of terrible. Caring whether she was in his favor or not was terribly frightening.

"Clarice, I don't want to control you. I want to nurture you, the real you. I want to plant you in good sunlight, provide you with shade and water when you need it."

Starling didn't like that. "That's not what I'm for," she said, almost absentmindedly. She was looking out of the window, again. She waited to see if he would hush her again, but he didn't. "That's not what I'm for," she said again, fortifying the truth she heard in the words. His disapproval didn't matter as much, now that she knew it to be true.

She looked at him, the anger gone. His anger, if there had ever been any real anger, was gone. If anything, he seemed pleased with her revelation.

"Do you understand?" she asked, gently.

Dr. Lecter broke their eye contact and looked out of the window. "I understand what you said."

"But you don't agree?" she wondered.

"It isn't that. But you should know something. Whatever you're becoming, I will be a part of it. That's something neither of us can stop, now. I am a part of your rise in this world. Make no mistake, you will rise. Even in those moments when your back is against a wall and you can't see a way; that's where your strength lies, you know. When you have nothing and no one, and there appears to be no way. That is when you shine brightest. When you learn that, really learn it, I hope to be there."

"I remember what you said in the letter."

"Good. Stop worrying about tomorrow night. Our terms are still in place, I will not injure you. You may experience discomfort or pain, but I will not wound you. Although I don't know if the same can be said of you," he said, looking at her."There are no deals in place in that regard, I have not limited you," he paused when she was looking at him again.

When they regarded one another:

"I will never limit you. Remember that, it's important."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N Four things. One, thank you to all commentors. Your words are so very encouraging. Second, please be aware that a second chapter containing the "smut version" has been posted to AO3. Three, I don't usually do my editing late at night, so if the editing is lacking, I apologize. Four, Happy Holidays!**

Starling woke either early or late, depending on the perspective. When she checked her watch, it read 8:47p.m. She did the quick math, surmising that it was 4:47a.m. where she was. Having made up for missing a night of sleep with a smattering of naps the day before, she was not surprised to have woken up at a strange time.

She'd never woken in a residence she shared with Dr. Lecter when he was not already awake. She wondered if he was awake, even now. She knew he slept when he wanted to, though he did not seem to be bound by common sleep practices.

Cerberus' tail thumped the bed next to her knee and she let out an amused puff of air and sat up. He looked at her, barely visible in the dark. She reached out and they found each other. He licked her fingers and she pulled the blanket off of her legs.

The floor was cold on her bare feet and she hopped quickly to her suitcase on the floor and pulled out a good, thick pair of ankle socks. Why had he picked Norway, of all places?

"Did he need this year's meet to be as cold as possible? Huh?" she asked Cerberus who had hopped down and was prodding her things with his nose. He looked up at her and whined.

"You're going to be noisy and wake up the whole house," she mused, before giving a shrug. "But that's not our fault, is it?"

Starling started the bathtub running, and sat on the edge in her robe and socks, petting Cerberus between checking the water temperature with a hand. When it was halfway full, she heard a knock on her bedroom door. Cerberus barked excitedly and Starling took a heavy breath as she watched him dart into the bedroom to the door.

Dr. Lecter was in his own robe at the door with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Good morning," he said.

Starling crossed her arms and leaned against the door jamb. "Why does it feel like you say that all the time?"

"I've repeated a number of things to you. I'd say the question should be: why does 'good morning' make a distinction in your mind? I won't take up much of your time," he went on, glancing at Cerberus who sniffed his feet. "I only wanted to let you know that I'll be starting the fire and to ask you if you'd like breakfast when you're finished or if you'd rather wait."

"I'd rather wait, if it suits you."

"Certainly. Should coffee wait, too?"

"No."

Dr. Lecter smiled and gave a short bow of his head. "Alright. Enjoy your bath. It should be warmer out here when you're finished."

"Thank you."

Dr. Lecter sat on the sofa, crossing his legs once the fire was lit and the coffee was made. Cerberus wagged his tail at his feet, and Dr. Lecter watched the fire. So far away, even now. She was so far away.

He knew that Clarice, on some level, had come to terms with the fact that she wanted him, both on a physical level and an emotional one. It was easier to surrender to the physical part; they had each made certain of that, respectfully. She, by creating a purpose driving their acts, and he, in encouraging it.

Emotionally, she had hardly cracked. He could tell that what he thought mattered to her, that she wanted to know what he thought about things and valued his insight. However, she was not ready to admit the depths they were capable of descending, together. He had not even been entirely aware, himself. He had not been acutely aware of it until the previous afternoon.

Dr. Lecter does not deign to define the word love, as it is entirely misused and misinterpreted. He may as well use the word 'sofa' or 'telephone' to describe his feelings, so related were they to what he felt, as the word 'love'. To describe the shape of such a thing was impossible, as it had no discernible shape. To describe the physical sensations was impossible, as it encompassed many; a myriad cocktail of sensations. Some of them he knew, and some of them he did not, and it was sometimes difficult even for him to recognize the feelings he knew when they were infused with those he didn't.

He had not slept. In fact, he had even crossed her closed door twice, once pressing a cheek to the cool and solid maple wood. Maple is good for soundproofing, and he could hear nothing but his own, steady pulse and the rain.

Being far outside the bounds of his own experience, Dr. Lecter is unsure of how he will react at any given moment, upon the discovery of this new proviso. He felt it unnecessary to discuss it with her for the time being. It would only serve to push her farther away, even frighten her. As much as it discomfited him, he thought it prudent to analyze these new thoughts and sensations, and so he had. He had explored them at length while Starling slept, yet come to few solid conclusions.

Of one thing he was certain: All things considered, Starling had done well to remain stoic and keep her anger in check, and that would not serve her well for the coming night. It would be too harsh a transition, too brutal to be beneficial. He would have to tenderize her, and to do it, he would need to use methods she would not expect from him. Time for that, later.

He soon found himself in the bedroom next to hers, standing in the middle of the dark room and looking at the wall. The wall separated him from her, where she lay in the bathtub. His hand moved at his side and, as though it had a mind of its own, grazed along his stomach as he moved forward.

He reached out and touched the wall. He bent, turned his head so his ear faced it. He could hear the remote, hollow sounds of the water, as she moved in it. His hand became flat against the wall and he moved it up, down, back and forth, as though caressing her body where she lay suspended in the water. He imagined her stretched out, her feet beneath the dripping faucet, her toes caressing one another. Her hair in ropes around her shoulders and breasts. He moved his hand along the length of where the tub would be, ran it across the length of Starling's inaccessible body.

In the bathroom, Starling sighed, and rubbed her elbow without opening her eyes. Her arm made a quiet splash when she let it fall back into the water.

It was strange. She had thought that coming here would feel like a dream, and she had declared it to be one, as though saying it really was like an incantation. Yet, it was the opposite. Her world back in D.C. was what felt like a dream. A dream she had been dreaming for years, and had finally woken up. She wondered how long the feeling would last, and how long she wanted it to last.

She rolled over on her side, the water making a tiny, upside down well in her right ear. She traced a finger along the edge of the tub, before it wandered to her own leg. With her eyes closed, Starling trailed her own hand up her waist, before dipping it in between her thighs. She hummed quietly, before opening her eyes. No, she wouldn't do that here, not now. Not like this. She sat up, the water sloshing and she wiped her face ineffectually with her wet hands.

"Oh, just get dressed," she said to herself, quietly.

Her body would not always be so inaccessible to him, Dr. Lecter mused when he greeted her and handed her a cup of coffee. Soon, she would be at his mercy. He thought of her body, the memories he had of it, his favorite snapshots. Laying supine. Still, but trembling, just a little. She was miles from wanting him as he wanted her, perhaps. But…at least he would have her to himself, for the night.

She slumped down next to him, her level prairie gaze inflicted upon the fireplace. Starling's eyes in the fire was becoming one of his favorite images. The sound of the fire, dull cracking and occasional pops, seemed almost to rise in volume as he watched her watching it; the blue of her eyes seemed to darken. He could not read her thoughts, but what sound they would make, if they could make a sound, would have been loud. Loud, like the cracking of the fire, abrupt snaps, with no discernible pattern, wood splitting, deafening in his mind, but he didn't know the language, if fire had a language.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he said, slowly. She didn't look at him, only turned her head a fraction in his direction, as a noncommittal cat does at the sound of it's name.

"I never really know how to answer that question," she started, and wore a soft smile. "There's a million thoughts rushing in and out. I suppose I could just pick one, at my leisure. Preferably, of course, one which would expend the least amount of effort, but buys a good deal of your interest, so as to not prompt further questioning."

She looked at him, then. His finger along his nose, he watched her until she blinked slowly and went on.

"These are the petty trials of knowing you."

Dr. Lecter pursed his lips. "The petty trials of knowing me. Was that meant to cut me or flatter me?"

"That's more up to you than me."

"Your intention matters."

"To you?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. That's good to know," she said, and smiled a charming smile. He could almost hear the grave, vibrating contralto of a lioness; not the garish roar, but the low, quiet warning made deep in the throat. The females, he reflected, were far more dangerous than the strutting males. Whatever animals he and Starling were, should they be deemed beyond human, could share that trait with lions, he reflected. But she was not grown yet, not yet. Perhaps it was necessary to first assess just how big she was really getting.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, and she tilted her head, seeming somewhat surprised at the change in tone and topic, though not alarmed by it.

"Well, and you?"

"My night was well-spent, but I am curious…" he trailed off, looking at the fire. She did not take the bait, but waited for him to continue on his own. "…as to why you would lie about such a trivial thing," he finished, looking at her again.

"You think I'm lying," she said, over a puff of sardonic laughter.

"I know you're lying. Do you really think you can lie to me?"

Dr. Lecter sighed, draping an arm over the back of the sofa. His fingers found their way to a few strands of her damp hair, but neither looked away from the other as he began to twine them in his fingers. "Strutting around the house the way you have, I can only assume you think you've become very clever. Don't be offended, I find it charming," he said, his eyes narrowing with his smile, his fingers twisting, caressing. "And economical. I think, Clarice Starling, that you need to feel clever, need to feel in control here, even if it's backstage." He watched her swallow, his fingers twirling, twirling, "Because you're very _lubricated_, Clarice. This room, this house, is suffused with the smell of it," His fingers found the slope of her shoulder. Two fingers and a thumb, caressed the skin, there. Starling inhaled sharply and she stood calmly, if not abruptly.

"That's not the only thing I can smell," he went on." I can smell your fear, Clarice. Paired with your arousal, it's very intoxicating."

"You always do this," she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

"What's that?"

"Remind me that I'm a woman when you're feeling threatened."

She came to stand in front of him, before continuing. At this angle, her bone structure was lovely in the light, as she looked down at him. "Of all the things to find interesting, I think it's that. But there is one thing I've learned about you, if nothing else. When you cut me, when you pierce me, it's never with something you think about me, never a personal insult you share with the world. It's what you think _I think_ of myself."

Dr. Lecter leaned back, looking up at her. The fire made a corona around her head and she smiled down at him. "It's why I can stand it. I'm not special, and I don't think I'm more clever than you. No, what I am is someone who _knows you_. Or at least I am beginning to. The first time," she said, pausing and holding a finger up, "You mocked me for being white trash. You never thought of me that way. No, you said it because you knew it's what _I_ feared I was. You cut me with my own knife, never your own. So when you try to cut me by reminding me that _yes_, I am a woman, _yes_, I can be horny, _yes_, my body is attracted to your body, you tell me more about you than about me. You give me insight into your own insight every time you insult me or mock me. So do it. Do it at every opportunity. Because every time you do," she paused once more, leaning over him, her hands on either side of his head gripping the back of the couch. Her hair hung between them and her eyes were calm, dark. "You give me a little more power."

She watched him without blinking, smiling or frowning. Dr. Lecter was pleased she'd finally come to this point as he gazed up at her. He decided that if a statue should be made in her honor, it should look just like this. He reached out at length, without moving another inch of his body or breaking their eye contact, and touched the damp ropes of hair between them.

"You are a striking creature," he said, quietly. Starling's composed expression didn't falter, but she rose up straight. The trace of alarm that appeared on her face only came when she had turned away from him.

Breakfast was quiet. The silence hung heavy, but both seemed absorbed in their own thoughts. It was a strange kind of comfortable. A new comfortable, perhaps, both finding their footing in their own respects.

Starling thought of their last interaction, and learned what had happened while she savored a bite of gruyère-laden croque madame. What had transpired only an hour or so before reminded her of the phrase, 'bringing a knife to a gun-fight'. The comparison was only somewhat applicable, but still, the words stuck in her mind as she contemplated it.

He'd done what he'd done many times before, he'd provoked her. Then he'd watched to see what she'd do. It had never been about a verbal duel. What he had done was assess her. He was checking to see what kinds of weapons she had, and she'd shown him. Furthermore, they'd both learned that two wounds had healed. The literal one, and now the allegorical one. The latter had manifested in a sense of self-betrayal, specifically in the arena of lust. She had experienced lust as she never had, she had made decisions in that mind-set. Was there anything more dangerous?

But she had come out of that self-flagellation. She had abandoned the word _whore_, abandoned its connotations. Whatever she was at any given moment, she must be her own ally. That much, so far, she had learned.

Later, while Starling was curled up on the sofa with Cerberus, Dr. Lecter came down the hall with her boots in one hand. He placed them in front of her, and Starling put a finger in the crook of her book. She looked down at her boots and raised an eyebrow at Dr. Lecter.

"Are we going somewhere?" she asked.

Dr. Lecter smiled."If you're agreeable."

"Oh," Starling said with a wry grin and rubbed the dog's head. "When am I not?"

"Excellent," he said, ignoring her sardonic spirit." I'll get your coat."

"Where are we going?" Starling said in a more curious tone. She set her book aside and watched Dr. Lecter returning with her coat over his arm. She was lacing up her boots and he waited.

"Trøndelag. It's about an hour and forty minutes by train."

"I seem to remember you having a perfectly fine rental. Is there some reason we need to take the train?" Her boots were on and she stood. She took her coat from Dr. Lecter, and he turned on his heels, before heading back down the hall.

"Your sense of adventure needs pruning," he answered over his shoulder, before disappearing into his own room. Starling rolled her eyes and shrugged on her coat. She glanced at Cerberus for support, but he only gazed up at her in the hopeful, longing way only an innocent creature does. She sighed.

"By the time we get back, it will be getting dark." Starling jumped at the sound of his voice and turned around, irritably.

"How and more importantly, _why_ do you do that?" she wondered, and scooped up her hair until it lay evenly on top of her coat. He handed her a hat, but she only gripped it in a clenched fist at her side.

"I suppose the answer to both questions would be...because I can," he said, leaning toward her slightly. His eyes cast down for a moment, before rising slowly until they made eye contact. He pursed his lips with a shrug and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. Starling moved her face away from his touch.

"Ummm," Dr. Lecter hummed, and Starling felt that hot, perverse flick from within at the sound and timbre of what she could only describe as his purr. "Do you know," he began, seeming to look her over for a moment, "I've taken note of something I find interesting. There is something about the way you recoil from my touch that truly stirs me. I think the reason is that you evade me only when you want me to touch you the most; I know that much from my limited experience with you. Don't think I can't see it," he paused, taking a step closer. She let him, perhaps because his eyes remained downcast as he advanced. Starling kept her chin raised, when he continued but said nothing.

"Don't think I cannot smell it or feel it," he said, placing a hand flat against his sternum. He took in a long, noisy breath through his nose, and Starling turned her face away from him. When he had finished sniffing the air between them, he opened his eyes. Two of his fingers on her chin brought them face to face. He watched her for a moment, savored the anticipation on her face, the noisy crackle in their eyes and touch. He particularly enjoyed it when she unconsciously glanced at his mouth and licked her lips. Oh, he would not forget that.

"Ready?" he asked, and Starling's eyebrows drew together. He tilted his head when she realized his hand was on her hip. He gripped it for a moment, before dipping it lower and squeezing the back of her upper thigh, just beneath her buttocks. She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him, before putting on her hat.

"Since when are you an oaf?" she said, under her breath. He reached the garage door before her and opened it. When she passed him this time, he gave her backside a noisy smack. Starling didn't move or make a sound but turned very slowly to regard him.

"No," she said, shaking her head. Dr. Lecter was putting on a scarf and closing the door behind him.

"No, what?" he asked, and she watched him go to the passenger's side of the car and open it for her. He waited, and she stared at him.

"No. Do not ever, ever do that again."

"Do what?"

When she only looked at him, he went on.

"Do what? What did I do? If you tell me what I did to you, I'll know what you wish me never, ever to do again." He smiled, politely.

"You struck me."

"Umm, I don't recall striking you. Where do you recall being struck, Clarice? Perhaps you should show me."

"If you do it again, I'll-"

"You'll what? Hmm? Will you shoot me? With what weapon? Will you leave? Or perhaps you'll strike me back with a well-placed round-house kick. Wouldn't that be something? Wouldn't it be something if you showed me just how strong a woman can be? Wouldn't it be something if you just _showed me_?"

"I am beginning to feel very curious as to why you're going to such great lengths to act like such a prick."

"You can think about what you would do to me on the way to Trøndelag."

"I don't know what kind of idiotic S&M horseshit you think we're getting into tonight, but whatever it is, I will endure it tonight. No sooner. I'm not yours until sundown, so cut this shit out. At sundown, there's nothing I can do."

"Oh, there's plenty for you to do, Clarice. It won't be my turn all night."

When she only stared at him with her lips parted, Dr. Lecter beckoned her with a finger. "You can think about it. On the way to Trøndelag."

In the car, Starling squeezed her thighs together and looked out the window. Dr. Lecter put on some music, and she relaxed, a little. At length:

"Why did you do it?" she asked the passing landscape.

"Why did I do what?"

"Please stop doing that."

"Why did I do _what_, Clarice? If you can't even say it, how are you to endure tonight?"

"You slapped my ass, like an adolescent. The kind you'd mock. It was entirely out of character and I felt no emotion from you behind it, which I suppose is why I'm not as mad as I ordinarily would be. It was a chess move. But I need to confirm why you did it. So, why?"

"Don't make this complicated too fast, it's boring."

Starling sniffed. "Fine. Give me the bullshit answer, that's better than none."

"Because you earned it. What did you say? What was it you called me?"

"Oh. I called you an oaf, so you slap my ass. Because that's fair and normal."

"I don't care what's fair or normal. But today, if I find you to be insolent or unbecoming, I will choose to communicate that to you however I see fit. I encourage you to do the same. Outside the bounds of what anyone else deems fair or normal."

"I'm not yours until sundown," Starling murmured.

"Your mine every minute of every day."

Starling suddenly found her heart hammering and her palms sweaty. His tone had seemed to cut through the atmosphere and air itself like a laser. Dr. Lecter noticed the sudden change in her breathing and was pleased. When he hazarded a quick glance, her face and chest were flushed. He placed a hand carefully, slowly, on her knee. She looked down at his hand, her eyes wide and glazed.

"I won't tear you until sundown. I won't disrobe you until sundown. I do so out of courtesy, and to keep our agreement rigid, because that makes you feel safe. But make no mistake. You're always mine. Everywhere. Everywhen."

Starling looked at him. He kept his eyes on the road, so she gazed at his profile, the slopes and dips of his eyebrows, nose, lips and chin. "If I'm always yours, no matter when or where I am, I wonder who _you_ belong to."

"Who _should_ I belong to, Clarice?"

"No one should belong to anyone."

"Ah, have you finally been catching up on Truman?"

Starling scoffed, looking back out the window. "Too complicated too fast," she said, shaking her head. "Since when am I moving too fast for you?"

Dr. Lecter glanced at his watch. "Maybe your memory of our talks in the dungeon are a little murky, Clarice. You rush things, because you're always in work-mode. You are not in work-mode, here. I only want to make that apparent."

"It seems like you're the one in work mode."

Dr. Lecter glanced at her, then back at the road. Starling held her hands up to the heater, and went on.

"Do you ever stop planning and live in the present? Do you ever stop making moves and just exist?"

"I'll have to watch and see, Clarice." There was a trace of humor to his voice, but it was an overt avoidance.

Starling was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her eyes remained forward. "I think that's the closest thing to a lie you've told me in a long time."

Dr. Lecter pursed his lips and said nothing all the way to the train station. Starling would have been pleased about stumping him, but couldn't find it in herself under the circumstances. She had a sour feeling in her gut.

The Oppdal train station was a quaint sort of yellow, striking against the snowy, crepuscular mountains behind it. There was a slumping mound of snow still clinging to its roof in the valley of the gable and eave. Below, was a frigid puddle where it dripped. Starling watched it's slow drip with her hands buried in her pockets while Dr. Lecter purchased tickets. She could feel it when he was coming up behind her. When he stood next to her, he handed her a ticket. She took it and put it in her pocket, quickly.

"You need gloves. They sell some across the street. I'll be back, shortly."

Before she could respond, he was gone. There was a bench against the station, facing the railroad and she took a seat. There was room inside, and it wasn't terribly crowded. She didn't exactly know why she remained outside. Perhaps because she had only ever been cooped up with him. They'd never made an outing, and she realized it all of a sudden.

How was he never worried? How did he live like this, live like a fugitive? What kind of a life was that worth living? She could not understand how he was never afraid, and with this question, came the other. If nothing frightened him but her, what did that make her?

By the time he returned, they could see the train coming in the distance and they stood, as though politely welcoming a guest. Some of the other people came outside, some with luggage or backpacks, some with nothing. Some murmured or coughed, others were quiet and checked their watches. None of them were looking at them, and Starling glanced at Dr. Lecter. He turned his head and smiled at her, and she noted the lines around his eyes in the light of day. Then she felt his hand at the small of her back, and suddenly he was guiding her forward, and then they were on a train and she followed him down the aisle until they were seated. She never took her eyes off of him. Somehow, his calm infected her; somehow, so long as she looked at him, no one would look at them.

They sat very close to one another, and when Dr. Lecter put an arm around her, she moved in closer until her shoulder was pressed into his underarm. Some part of her watched from far away and buried her head in her hands as she closed her eyes and felt heat in her face when he kissed her cheek, slow and soft.

As it turned out, the train ride was rather pleasant. Starling felt an absurd sense of safety, comfortably fitted into the nook of Dr. Lecter's arm. Comfortably fitted into their disguised coupledome and his fraudulent tenure. She shuddered at the thought, but was unsure after the fact, if it had been a shudder or a quiver. She placed different connotations on the words. Either way, playing the part of Dr. Lecter's companion seemed to allow her to adapt a certain kind of calm confidence, an air of a new persona. At a certain point, they struck up a conversation with another couple, even inviting them to sit with them. Later, she would admit she found the experience a bit thrilling.

"I moved here for him," the young woman said to Starling in a low voice. She rolled her eyes with a smile and shrugged. "I don't like admitting it, but maybe there's more dignity in facing it for what it is. I moved for a man, and damn if I'm not happy." She smiled, glancing at her husband. He had leaned over and was showing Dr. Lecter an old pocket watch.

The bride was Holly Cier and the groom was Oliver Berg. Holly was twenty three years old and looked it. To Starling, Holly had the look of a young, sprightly woman on the outside. Her cornflower hair shined, her skin had the pinky elasticity of youth and her expressive hands and animated face suggested all the more her vibrancy. Yet, her voice gave her away on occasion, as did her eyes. It was these whispers that Starling heard; it was these whispers that made Holly momentarily interesting.

Starling leaned forward and when Holly mimicked her, they had the pretense of female privacy created by the curtains of their hair and of course, their aura.

"Do you know what I find?" Starling began." No one judges me as harshly as I do. It's easy to nonchalantly cast judgment this way and that, but what we're really all thinking about is being judged, ourselves. Everyone's a damn hypocrite, so screw it."

Holly gave her a crooked grin. "Amen, sister."

Dr. Lecter liked Oliver's pocket watch. It was 19th century, yellow gold. Oliver knew the maker but not its origin.

"If it was made by Patek Philippe there's a decent chance it was made in Geneva," mused Dr. Lecter. When Oliver handed it to him, Dr. Lecter stopped him with a finger. He reached into a pocket and took out a handkerchief. He placed it flat on his left palm, before indicating to Oliver he was ready to take it. Dr. Lecter put it close to his face, and he could smell its age, but not its major components.

Gold has no smell. Many other metals do, but pure metals do not. It is, in fact, the chemical compounds within the metal which give it a scent. Iron compounds, for instance, have a scent, accounting for the similarity between the smell of blood and that of damp rust. With practice, one may be able to distinguish the smells of well-used copper and brass from iron; anyone knows the smell of an old penny.

Yet, gold is quite chemically non-reactive. Of course gold's inert nature is one reason it is sought after. Dr. Lecter can smell the residue of age and preservatives and even a trace of gunpowder. He cannot detect the gold itself. He glanced at Starling out of the corner of his eye while Oliver droned on about steel pallet fork bridges and jewels. He could not see her face for her hair, and for a moment, he stopped himself from sweeping it back so that he could look at her. Then it occurred to him he did not have to stop himself. As far as these people were concerned, as far as she was concerned, she was his and he could move her hair if he pleased. When he touched her, she moved to look at him as he tucked it behind her ear. He opened an arm, gestured she should re-nestle. To his infinite pleasure, she moved in until his arm came around her.

"Look at this, my dear," he moved it so she could see. She bent her head and looked up at Oliver.

"It's lovely. How long have you had it?" she asked.

"It's been in my family for four generations. It was a wedding present, so I've only had it a few months."

Dr. Lecter smiled. "And an excellent wedding present, it is."

"What about you two, I don't see any rings," said Holly. She winked at Starling, who had to look away so that her distaste went unnoticed. Dr. Lecter caressed her shoulder with a thumb and she looked at him.

"Yes, Dear. Where is my ring?" she asked, the challenge implicit in her expression and tone.

Dr. Lecter responded by leaning into her neck and kissing her there. When his head came up, Starling braced herself for the difficult task of remaining stoic. "In good time. My dear."

Starling laughed, and the couple across from them laughed, and Dr. Lecter smiled, his eyes always on Starling.

Near the end of their trip, Holly leaned across Oliver with a camera. "Up ahead, we'll stop at the Hell station."

"What?" asked Starling.

"Yes, Dear. Next stop, hell," said Dr. Lecter.

Oliver scoffed. "There is a small town we're about to enter called Hell. People like to take pictures with the sign, sometimes. Will you be taking a photo?"

"No, I don't believe that's a particular thing I need to immortalize," Starling answered.

They stayed put while the train was stopped, and watched Holly and Oliver scamper outside. It seemed even colder here, if it were possible. The window had little thorny fingers reaching from the sides where condensation had frozen, and it reminded Starling of the gold, floral surround of Oliver's pocket watch. Snow covered everything here, and the sky was slate gray. The train station was yellow with red trim, a rather jaunty building to welcome weary travelers to Hell. Above its façade was a little blue clock, and above the blue clock was a plain white sign which read, simply:

HELL

"When was it you said? The day you would be my true companion?"

"When hell froze over," Starling said. She was leaning over him to look out the window, so when she glanced at him, their faces were close. He smiled.

"Very cute," she conceded. "Surely this trip was not purely to live a pun."

"You could do worse than live a pun, but no. I told you, we're headed to Trøndelag. There are some places worth visiting," he answered, pausing when she sat back in her seat, looking at him. "If I had more time with you, we would take a helicopter tour of the North. With only a weekend and a train ride, it's the best I can do."

Starling narrowed her eyes, slightly. "I don't understand," she said, looking around to confirm their privacy, before leaning in close. Dr. Lecter leaned in close too, and Starling couldn't be sure if he was mocking her, but didn't care. "What do you think this is?" she whispered into his ear. Dr. Lecter turned his head to whisper into Starling's ear:

"Contingency, Clarice. It is an opportunity."

"An opportunity for what?" she wondered, her voice low as her eyes darted toward their car door.

"Indulgence, of course," he answered, taking a moment to incline his head and smell her neck. Starling moved her head away, but looked at him. When she glanced at his mouth he noticed and she swallowed.

"This isn't an opportunity, it's collateral. We're on borrowed time."

"If that's true, all the more reason to find pleasure in our circumstances. Would you prefer we brood all weekend? Complete the task with a television blaring in the background and takeout on the table? Some part of you would, perhaps," he paused, and they were both silent, as a family walked past their car, glancing at them. Their fraudulent smiles vanished the moment they were alone. Then, they were looking at one another once again, tense and warm in their proximity. He went on:

"But that's not really you. Dishonoring our pact would serve to remove you from it. You find yourself longing for that mote around your castle, but there's no place for that, not anymore. Not between you and I. Our agreement cannot work that way. The part of you that longs for the mote is only a version of you created to survive a specific period of your life. It served you well in Institutions, didn't it? But this isn't the Lutheran Home or Quantico. You're out in the wilderness. With me. You can't always count on the security of Spartan buildings and their axioms. One day you may find yourself in the wilderness again, and you'll have no knowledge of how to navigate. The squabbling ship's crew laugh at the stargazer, Clarice."

"Ah, so this is all for my benefit, then. Not Hannibal the Cannibal, but Lecter the Protector."

Dr. Lecter seized her arm with furious strength, and she gasped; not in pain, but in surprise. "Do you think it perturbs me when you're insolent? If so, you're mistaken. No, I welcome it. It serves as _opportunity_, Clarice. I highly recommend you begin to look for those yourself, in the coming hours," he said, his voice still low but picking up pace. Holly and Christopher were heading back toward the train, the bored porter giving a wave. Starling glanced at Dr. Lecter with a raised eyebrow and he was not quite smiling.

"The sun will be setting in about six hours. Maybe one of these days I'll take you beyond Trøndelag to Tromsø, and keep you for the Polar Night. Then you'd be my little doxy for far longer than one night."

"Opportunity, huh? You've given me plenty of reason to enjoy tormenting you, if that's what you had in mind. Is that what you want? Do you want to encourage me to be sadistic, then? You're so intent on bringing out the wickedness in me that you're ready to be my personal pincushion?"

"One day, Clarice, I hope that you can see the significance in the thought."

Starling leaned away, looking at him, intently. His grip loosened slightly, but her eyes were wide and alarm was seething in her face. She took three breaths before she spoke. "Alright. You wish to irritate me into insolence, so that you can play Master to the damsel. In so doing, you wish to elevate my irritation to new levels of outrage so that I, in turn, am ready to play Mistress to your buck. And I should find it all romantic. Have I got all this straight?"

"You should find it however you find it, Clarice."

"Have I got it?"

"Yes."

She glanced at the door, knowing they had only a few more moments left alone.

"Fine," she said, eyeing him. A few tense, silent moments, before Dr. Lecter spoke.

"You've been exceedingly rude, Clarice."

"Sure. You've been exceedingly trying," she responded, her tone sharp. A small twitch in her coral lips.

"Nonetheless."

"Jesus, I can't play this game. What do you want, anyway? Do you want me squealing and kicking over your knee?"

"I would venture to say," Dr. Lecter said, grinning," that you would be the most fortunate of my victims, if that were the case."

Starling found herself laughing hard, and by the time Holly and Christopher had returned, her face was red from the strain, and a few passersby looked on when the door was opened to get a look at the hysterical woman.

By the time they had reached their stop, Christopher was giving Dr. Lecter advice on how to get to Nidaros Castle. Starling looked on, amused at the sight of Dr. Lecter calmly taking the advice of a man so young and shiny and pink. She gave Holly a one-armed hug and smiled tightly when Holly gave her a wink.

"If you drop little reminders here and there, he'll probably propose. He seems absolutely obsessed with you. "

"Oh," Starling said, briefly rattled. "Well. Thank you, Holly," she glanced at Dr. Lecter. He'd replaced his overcoat and was tugging on his gloves. When he replaced his hat, he glanced at her and winked.

Starling cleared her throat and looked back at Holly. "Perhaps I'll give being a tyrant a try, after all."

Holly screwed her eyebrows together at Starling's choice of words, but then her husband approached, giving her cheek a noisy kiss and the moment was lost.

Dr. Lecter came behind him and, without warning, clapped Starling on the back of the thigh. Starling made a sound she would replay in her mind later, again and again, and then jumped back with a hand over her mouth. Holly put a hand over her grinning mouth too, and Christopher looked at Dr. Lecter, then Starling, then Lecter again with his eyebrows raised.

"Lovely meeting you both. Good day," said Dr. Lecter, before guiding Starling out of the train.

It was a fifteen minute walk before they reached a restaurant on the waterfront. Starling eyed Dr. Lecter from the window as he spoke to someone at the telephone booth outside. When he returned, she smiled sweetly at him, and then at the waitress who returned with a coffee.

"Thank you so much," said Starling, and the waitress gave her a smile and nod, before turning to Dr. Lecter. "And for you?" she asked.

"Oh, he's mute," Starling said, and briefly looked down at her clasped hands on the tabletop. When she looked back up, she mirrored the sympathetic look on the waitress' face.

"Oh," she said, shifting her feet, anxiously.

"He'll take a coffee too, just black."

The waitress nodded, giving Starling a look of respect and tenderness. When she was gone, Starling looked at Dr. Lecter. He looked at her with both amusement and contempt, a corner of his mouth twitching. Starling took a sip of her coffee.

Lunch was pleasantly quiet for Starling, and when they left, Dr. Lecter sighed. "Charming," he said, as they were walking.

"Who were you speaking to on the phone?" she asked.

"I was calling to confirm the opening hours at Nidaros Cathedral."

"How far is it?"

"Not far. We can walk there."

Starling was quiet for a moment, apparently in thought. By the time they were halfway there, she had been quiet for ten minutes. She was looking at the hairs on Dr. Lecter's wrist where they peaked out between his cuff and wristwatch. There was a bridge coming up on their left, and Dr. Lecter glanced at it, at the pedestrians and the bikes lining the sidewalks, then at the sprawling sky and finally the water, a bit dull on this gray afternoon.

"Clarice?"

"Umm-hmm?"

"Tell me what you're thinking," he said, and guided them toward the bridge, though it was not in the right direction.

Starling kept her eyes on the hair on Dr. Lecter's wrist as the sun came out briefly as they turned. "I was wondering how long you've been planning this trip with me."

"It didn't take long."

"How long…at what point…did you begin planning it?"

"Oh, I think the idea first occurred to me a few months ago."

"Oh."

"Oh?" Dr. Lecter echoed her with a note of amusement. They came to stand against the red railing and he leaned his elbows against it, looking out at the water."Did you imagine me drooling like Sammie all year long? At the prospect of seeing you, again?"

"Maybe not drooling."

"Hmm. What about you, Clarice?"

"Have I been drooling over seeing you? I think we've discussed at length my feelings about seeing you, again."

"Yes. And we've gone around and around the truth."

"I'd like to talk about you," Starling said. She leaned against the railing in the opposite direction, facing the pedestrians and the opposite side of the bridge. "What exactly have you been doing all year? The agreement is in place. Nothing I learn during this time will be used against you. We have to trust each other. This can't continue to be one-sided."

Dr. Lecter conceded her point with a curt nod. "I've been in Vienna."

"And?"

"What do you wish to know, Clarice?"

"Who did Cerberus belong to?"

Dr. Lecter kept his eyes on the water, but eyed her with his peripheral. "A friend, you could say. His name was Wagner."

"How did he pass?"

"Suicide, unfortunately."

Starling pursed her lips and watched a young man in a stylish scarf walking with a little dog. "What did you do?" she asked, smiling at an older woman as she passed them.

"Nothing that would have driven _you_ to suicide."

"That's irrelevant. You know how much I can take, you know how much anybody can take."

"Honestly, Clarice, I didn't do anything with his suicide particularly in mind."

"What did you do?"

"He asked for my assistance with his love life, and I obliged."

"Dr. Lecter-"

He glanced at her and placed a hand on her forearm. She paused looking at his hand, and realized she'd balled her fists awkwardly in front of her, as thought she was gripping a steering wheel. She relaxed her arms and let them fall to her sides.

"Clarice?"

She sighed. "What?"

"I can only be what I am. There will be a level of social Darwinism in effect no matter what treaties you make with me or the world. There will be casualties."

Starling let her head rotate around and noted the cracking of her neck. She turned to face the same direction as Dr. Lecter, mirroring his position. He moved his hand until it lay on top of hers on the railing. She didn't move or acknowledge it. She was recalling the many children she wouldn't save, the ocean she drained with a spoon, and her head hung. She could see herself below, a dark apparition on the water's surface. She could see Dr. Lecter's too.

"Oh, come now. Don't be sullen," he said, giving her hand a squeeze. "There is purpose in life beyond trying to mold it to your ideals. In time, regardless of our deal or even associating with me, you'll find that your effort has less value than a child's finger painting. At least the latter is enjoying the task."

"Not everything is about enjoyment."

"With you, nothing is," he said, releasing her, as the tone of his voice became more chipper.

"And with you, that's all there is."

"Is that so? I'm sure you'll think of unique ways to torture me, Clarice. I am not a masochist, but I'm willing to sacrifice my own pleasure for yours."

"That's beautiful," Starling said. The sarcasm she'd meant to insert had lost some of its luster. It came out sounding either wistful or impartial.

By the time they reached the cathedral, the sun was getting low in the sky. The bare trees surrounding the grounds were craggy silhouettes, casting long, blue shadows over the snow-covered ground. The cathedral itself was bewitching, naturally, having been built in the classical Romanesque and Gothic style of its time.

They approached the façade side by side, but did not touch. It was beginning to get very cold; they were in the shade of the sactuary. Starling had a distant compulsion to draw closer to Lecter. She acknowledged it, but otherwise ignored it. Instead, she decided she wanted to speak before he did, and she knew he would.

"When does the tour begin?"

"We're not with a tour."

"Everywhere I go with you is a tour."

Dr. Lecter smiled and rolled a spare button in his overcoat pocket around and around. "I think what you're trying to say, or perhaps, trying _not_ to say, is that everywhere you go with me, I am your guide."

"You're not the guide," Starling said. Her voice was low and contemplative. "No, it isn't you," she seemed to agree with herself. She seemed to return to herself, or the moment, or both. "No, you're something else. And anyway, what I meant was that you have a love of showing off what you know. So my question is, when do the little factoids begin? I know you have them. About this place."

Dr. Lecter watched a couple leaving the castle. They walked with their elbows locked and were talking and laughing loudly. He inadvertently made eye contact with the man, who quit laughing and smiling for a moment as they passed. "I can tell you about this place if you liked, but you've made your disinterest clear. What I would like to know is, if I am not the guide, who is?"

"What do you mean?" Starling asked. She didn't look at him, but frowned as she looked up at the looming cathedral façade. There were a few pigeons perched high up, and they peered out across their domain, little black cooing specks above.

"You began a very interesting conversation with yourself, a moment ago. I'd like to hear more. You made a point of deciding I was not _the_ guide. Guide in what? And who _is _the guide?"

"Guide in what?" Starling repeated his first question as they were entering the cathedral.

As nearly everyone does upon entering a Gothic cathedral, Starling immediately looked up. Churches were often built with this effect in mind; one's thoughts should be drawn upward, to the heavens. One's place of worship ought to reflect the higher thoughts of the saved. Dr. Lecter looked up, too.

There were a few people seated at the pews near the front. Their colorful sweaters and low chatter were discordant in the solemn dignity of this place.

"In life, Dr. Lecter," she finally answered. She kept her voice very low and confidential. It felt inappropriate to speak, even when others were.

Dr. Lecter seemed to agree, as he only nodded. They were quiet as they walked, exploring the nave and then the ambulatory. Then they walked back to the crossing and stood quiet with their hands in their pockets looking at the crucifix statue. When a group approached from behind they immediately turned in unison, and left the church in silence. Neither spoke until they found themselves in the cemetery.

"This was built over the burial site of King Olav II," said Dr. Lecter. They were looking at a particular gravestone for no particular reason. It had the gorgon loop carved into it. Starling knew it to be the symbol for Saint John's arms, and that people once carved it on houses, barns and even household utensils to protect from evil spirits. She also knew it to be the command key on apple computers, and she smiled sourly at the way humans had created so much meaning only to devour it all in favor of distraction and rubbish.

"You couldn't help yourself, could you?" she mused, finally glancing at him. Dr. Lecter looked at Starling and found she was smiling at him. It was a new sort of smile, thought he'd seen a flavor of it once before. It had come on the night they'd last been together, after he'd first entered her. Not immediately after, no. It had come hours later when she'd sought comfort, sought an ally in the aftermath of her plunge into self-imposed desolation. She was seeking again now, seeking an ally…in him. She looked at him with the saddest smile, but it wasn't entirely sad. She smiled at him the smile which ventures to share one's loneliness, and he smiled back and took her hand.

"If someone were to build to honor your death, it would sweep a continent," he said.

"When I die, it will likely be an unmarked grave. Like this one. But thanks."

"If you die before me, I'll visit your unmarked grave in my best suit, and in my mind the mirage of its spires will reach the troposphere."

Starling stared at Dr. Lecter. Her lack of words felt abrupt and her mouth opened and closed. She couldn't bring herself to wise-crack or even thank him. The grandeur of his compliment, as morbid as it was, left her feeling lost and more than a little concerned. His words were those of someone deeply in love and she finally had to look away. She was glad when a crow cawed abrasively, breaking the silence which came after Dr. Lecter's glutted avowel.

They were quiet on the way to the train station. They remained quiet on the train. Starling could only hear Dr. Lecter's words again and again; they were accompanied by a mosaic of images, some related to the moment and others not.

_If someone were to build to honor your death… _

_White snow, long, blue shadows_

…_it would sweep a continent…_

_The roar of the plane as it begins its descent. The sky out of the little window, a dense, churning haze._

_If you die before me…_

_Christ the teacher, standing in the center arch. Dark, broken images on the water._

…_I'll visit your unmarked grave in my best suit…_

_Ardelia in her favorite dress, laughing as they throw their shoes, clattering on the floor. Ardelia, Ardelia… The guide, in black slingbacks._

…_and in my mind the mirage of its spires will reach the troposphere…_

_The crow's caw, her father's grave._

Starling couldn't bare the thought that he was in love with her. She could not bare that he would want her to know it. She could not bare to acknowledge knowing it.

The sun was nearly set while they were finally back in his rental on their way to the cabin. Still, neither had spoken. Starling realized her heart had begun to beat a little faster, her hands had grown a little damper, and her foot began to periodically spasm. She gazed out the window as they approached the driveway and realized why. The sun was nearly gone, and it meant the second night of their covenant approached. As she walked just behind him to the door, her legs felt weak.

He turned and looked at her when the door was closed behind them, and she stood with her arms at her sides in the middle of the living room. They walked toward one another until they stood in front of the tall, narrow windows on either side of the front door. They looked at one another as the last of the daylight left, and then it was dark outside and in the house.

Dr. Lecter offered his hand. "Little doxy," he whispered.

She took his hand, and felt only a whisper of chagrin that her hand was shaking. He felt the trembling of her hand, looked down to observe it, and covered the back of her hand with his other before looking back up at her.

"Hannibal…" she whispered back, feeling suddenly as thrilled as she was uneasy.

"The first half of the night is mine," he reminded her, and kissed her hand. He smiled. "The second half will be your revenge."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N** Hello, sweet friends. I hope you're all safe and sound. I'm guessing that like many of you, I am stuck inside and practicing 'social distancing', although I did that pretty well, before. As a result, I'm sure at least some of you are rather bored. Guess what? Me too! For the first time in a long time, I actually have the time and **energy **to continue our journey into hell. Before we continue our descent, I will say (with complete sincerity and genuine empathy) that I am sorry for this most recent delay. It was a long one, I realize that. Fortunately, it was spent finishing my manuscript, so it was time not wasted (at least, for me). Hopefully, knowing that the delay was not due to me farting into a sofa (mostly) every night helps you to accept my apology.

Enough prattling. I'm not a blogger. Without further ado. I hope you enjoy. -J.B.

* * *

Joseph Strobl fidgeted where he stood, the sound of his wife's prattling like the distant whining of a nearby insect. Her voice was muted like all of the other voices around him, during the intermission. He was gazing across the room with his eyes narrowed, gazing at the impeccably dressed man whose back was to him, at the moment. The Doctor's face was turned enough to show his profile though; he was talking to a woman that Strobl did not immediately recognize. Not until she'd turned.

He didn't speak aloud, but sub-vocalized her name,_ Etienne_, and his cheek flinched. A server passed him, and the lights from the magnificent chandelier overhead caught the champagne she carried and he licked his lips. When he looked across the room, the Doctor was gone. He turned to his wife and she eyed him, as though to say, _I'm in the middle of a conversation. If you interrupt me, you'd better be tactful._

As huge of a gulf had come between them over the years, it did not seem to detract at all from the irrevocable familiarity of knowing and living with someone for over a decade. She could still communicate paragraphs to him with the corner of her eye. He turned fully to the chatting group, smiling at the woman who was currently talking, as he touched his wife's elbow. The woman smiled back and gave a nod of acknowledgement.

"Yes, Dear?" she asked.

"I'm going to use the facilities. I'll be back shortly."

"Of course."

He kissed her cheek very tenderly, as he knew it was disgust and anger her. He could feel her seethe at his touch, but unable to recoil from it in public. His heart swelled with a glee that stayed with him, all the way to the restroom.

When he had the privacy afforded to him by the Opera House's immaculate men's room stall, Stroble sat on the closed toilet lid and took out a half-empty bottle of codeine. He popped one into his mouth and chewed it, slowly. It was an awful taste, but that was part of it, for him.

He'd been mostly sober for over two years. Most of the time, the desire to drink was a dull sort of ache that he'd grown accustomed to; it was not so very difficult to ignore it. But on occasion, he could hardly bare it. A dull ache turned into a stabbing pain, and he had to do something. He wasn't sure why the chalky, chemical taste helped to relieve some of the compulsion. He knew it was also the effect of the codeine itself, or at least it had been when he'd first started using it. Now, he didn't know and he didn't care.

The bastard was up to something. Strobl had no idea why he thought it, but every time he was around Doctor Boucher something in him twitched with animosity. The man's air, which had once seemed exceedingly noble and charming, now seemed menacing. The Doctor's expressions and mannerisms, which had once seemed impeccably charismatic and self-assured, now seemed otherworldly in its arrogance and conceit. He'd realized the building of this resentment in his own mind a week before, when they'd briefly talked at a charity event. It all came together suddenly, and he could've sworn the man had turned to look at him, turned his head independently of his body the way a predatory bird does, at the exact moment Joseph Strobl realized he hated him.

And the hate was visceral. He hated him as though he was responsible for all of his recent troubles, and perhaps, absurdly, every hardship he'd ever had. Boucher had become, without his realizing it, his personal demon. _How had it happened?_ He'd wondered. Ordinarily, he would've been inclined to talk to his wife about it, to get her reaction to both the speculation of the Doctor's malevolence, and his personal hatred toward him. But he could not, would not do that. They were not on speaking terms.

However, it didn't occur to Joseph Strobl to do anything about it until this night, sitting pathetically on a toilet seat with the dry, bitter taste of dissolving codeine coating his mouth and tongue. It was when he heard the bathroom door open, heard a man's humming, resonant within the bathroom's walls. He didn't immediately recognize it as Doctor Boucher's voice, he'd never heard the man hum. He could not have imagined such a thing, had someone prompted him to do so.

After a few moments someone else left, and he knew it was only the two of them in the restroom. He leaned over and saw the Doctor's shoes; those fine, depraved shoes. And he was humming, the bastard! He was pleased, he was happy, he was jaunty! Why was he happy? How dare he?

He heard the sink turn on after a few moments, and the humming resumed. What was he humming? What was that tune? He knew he knew it, and he racked his brain, his lips forming the words to it before he'd noticed.

_There are moments_, his lips and tongue formed the words, _you remember all your life. There are moments you wait for and dream of all your life, _he began nodding to himself. _This is one of those moments…_

Streisand. The man was humming a fucking Barbara Streisand song. Strobl's face, unbeknownst to him, was red with anger, and he gripped the bottle of codeine in one hand and his fingernails dug into his own palm with the other. He sat alone in the toilet listening to the enigmatic, impossibly elegant Doctor humming a Streisand song in the bathroom, and he tasted blood. He tasted his own blood as he heard him hum, happy and maybe in love, and he wanted to kill him, and he decided to kill him, in that moment of insanity.

* * *

Many people may feel a stab of loneliness when returning to a dark, empty home, all alone. For Dr. Lecter, this wasn't so; he loved the experience of returning home, in and of itself. His pleasure was doubled finding it both empty and dark. He ushered himself in with a spring to his step. He folded himself inward as he closed and locked the door behind him, enveloped himself within himself, as a bat swaddles itself with its taut, black skin and long spindly fingers. Contrary to some wild notions, he did not share anything else with a bat, or its symbolic relationship to a vampire. Though he does enjoy coming home to a dark and empty place. Empty, for the most part. There was now a chipper, waddling dog, but he found he didn't mind him.

As he turned on a single lamp and sat down with a drink, he folded one leg over the other and imagined if coming home to Clarice Starling would be unfavorable. He decided it wouldn't be; she occupied the palace of his mind with alacrity, and he found he welcomed her there more and more. An invasion of his physical home would be no more intrusive. And she already invaded him, incessantly. He did not seem to have much control over it. He'd run a few tests to check.

He'd tried playing the piano and shopping. He'd tried going out and staying in. He'd tried writing music and studying the stars. He found that she always returned, sometimes whispering interjections, opinions, thoughts, often without him noticing immediately. Her voice was like a ghost that would not be persuaded. He would sometimes think, _Ah! I've done it! It's been minutes that I've not thought of her._ Then he would realize he'd thought about not thinking about her for much of those minutes, and had to begin again.

In time, he discovered the more he tried to curb it, the worse it became. Her presence in his thoughts was like quicksand, that way. The more he struggled, the further he seemed to sink. So he had stopped trying. At a certain point, one must come to terms with one's cohort. She had him by the short hairs, and he was quite sure that on some level, she knew it. What she would do with it, he was not entirely sure.

He could dominate her, he could influence her, he could even possess little scraps of her. But it did nothing to change the true dynamic which was developing. He began to realize, not without alarm, that there was not much he was unwilling to do for her. Granted, being a man of little self-denial or allegiance to social norms, this meant less, perhaps, than it might for an ordinary man. Yet, the sentiment remained; he would kill for her, he would not kill for her, he would hurt her just enough to make her squirm and moan in half-pleasure, but he knew that he would never, never _harm_ her. Perhaps, not even for the sake of his own life or freedom. _That_, if nothing else, did frightened him.

There was one limit, he'd found. Should she betray him, he was quite certain that he could harm her in exchange for his freedom. And, at the end of their covenant, he would still be what he was. If she asked him to stop after all of this was done, he believed he could say, '_No'_ with finality, perhaps even with an unkind smile. Perhaps he could muster one of those, in the end. Even if it was on his knees.

He didn't wait to write her as long as he did, after their first night together. A good deal of the _'bullshit_', she would say, had come crumbling down during their last visit. Honesty had ruled the weekend, and had even taken precedence over manners. Those were the lengths he'd had to go to, though he hadn't regretted it. Their most recent meeting had been a monumental revelation. Their merciless epiphany had made a pantheon out of that sorry little cabin. He wondered, to amuse himself, if places could become haunted by the living, or if the participants must necessarily become ornery phantoms.

It was less than a month later that he first put pen to paper. He included a drawing, with it. He knew she would burn it, but that was irrelevant.

He thought of mandala-destroying monks. All that effort, all that sentiment, gone for the sake of embracing impermanence. Dr. Lecter's ego is notoriously monstrous, but he didn't draw Clarice Starling's face on a winged-lioness for glory, or for any eyes but hers, and certainly not for her praise. He drew it because he was inclined to, because he wanted her to see who she was. She didn't need to hang it on her refrigerator to accomplish that. She only needed to see it once. The burning of his letter and drawing was appropriate. While the monster does not tend to dwell or glower, he had both the reason to accept that their little game would eventually come to an end, and that when it did, she would drift beyond his reach. All the effort, all the sentiment, destroyed. He would touch her and taste her and pretend he owned her for a little while, and he would look upon his work with bitter triumph, and then watch it burn.

In the days which followed Wagner's funeral, Dr. Lecter became aware that Joseph Strobl had picked up an annoying habit of following him. He was amazed that the man could possibly think he was unaware, as clumsy and careless as he was about it. It was annoying, but not concerning. It did not become concerning until early June, when he met Mitzy one late afternoon for cocktails. It was under the pretense of good, scholarly squalling, some of which Dr. Lecter occasionally enjoyed. She was very bright and frank without being rude, and knew a good deal about subjects which interested him. However, he had come to rely on her for social news; the old woman did love to gossip.

"Obviously", Mitzy was saying, "she sleeps a good distance down the hall, these days. I'm not sure which one of them is in the proverbial dog house, but I think the whole estate is infused with foul augery. So I imagine it doesn't matter. Those two live in a hell of their own making, but at least the drapes compliment the furniture."

"It's important to furnish one's pit of despair," Dr. Lecter pointed out. "Otherwise, one may choose to climb out of it."

She cackled briefly, and nodded. "Anyway, Léonie has taken to wild theories, in her infinite boredom and paranoia."

"Oh? Like what?"

"That Joseph wants to kill you."

"Is that so? Why me and not Adrian?"

She shrugged. "Apparently, he's decided you're an evil genius who simply _must_ be stopped."

"I'm flattered."

"I thought you might be."

Dr. Lecter appeared, for a moment, to consider something. "But surprised that he confides in her, at all," he mused, at length.

"Pfft," Mitzy dashed her head to the side and took a sip of her drink. "Oh, I don't think it's like that. I think he confides to the mirror or a diary or some such poignant patheticity, and she's gleamed the obvious."

"I see." Dr. Lecter noted that Mitzy had made up a word, _patheticity_. He had no doubt she was aware, and it didn't bother him. In fact, he pocketed it away, not for his own use, but for his own amusement.

"So I suppose you'd better get your passports and IDs in order."

"What for?"

"To flee the country, of course," Mitzy said, with the accentuated flat tone of sardonicism. "Now that the incredible Detective Strobl is on the case, you'll have to fade into the sunset, naturally."

"Naturally. You have my gratitude for the warning, Madame."

Of course, Dr. Lecter mused while sitting on his terrace the following evening, there was no immediate cause for concern. Strobl was an emotional buffoon. However, he didn't favor anyone sniffing around so closely or so often. Even a broken clock is right twice a day; it was conceivable that if he became unreasonable enough, he could accidentally stumble upon something he shouldn't be stumbling upon.

He dipped his nose into the wine glass and took a hardy sniff. He'd only just opened it, and he had not taken a sip, yet. He glanced at the bottle, still sitting on the small table to his side. It's flaxen color was illuminated in the sun, and it appeared as crisp as its smell. He gave it another twirl and sniffed once more as he considered his covenant with Clarice Starling, and how much further he could walk the line. Perhaps the next time they met, she would be entitled to be all the more cross with him. He did not entirely shy from the thought, and he smiled to himself.

"_Prast,"_ he said, raising his glass to the setting sun. He thought of her hair of course, and he thought of her skin in the firelight. He thought of her aromatic scent, pungent and sweet as the wine he was about to savor. He thought of what Herr Stroble might taste like with a little rosemary and coriander, and how well he might wash down with a good, hardy wine. An off-white Riesling or perhaps a Viognier, then. Those went well with swine, he reflected.

He took a sip and closed his eyes. He could nearly taste him, now. He smiled to himself again, and looked at the wine as one looks at an impossible lover. He looked at the wine as he would look at Clarice Starling, had he the motivation to be so garishly transparent.

"_La __d__ouleur __e__xquise, _as our Etienne would say," he murmured. "No, _ma cheri_, I won't break the rules."

_But I may have to bend them,_ he thought, with the trace of a smile.

* * *

Dr. Lecter and Etienne had limited their association, and she had most certainly cooled toward him. He didn't mind that; even should she become suspicious of him, it wouldn't be for being who he was; it would be for what they'd accomplished together, and she was obviously hopelessly entangled herself. She would say nothing. And anyway, he was quite certain she was afraid of him, just a little. Still, they occasionally met and caught one another up on the trifles of every day life. She'd enrolled in school and had acquired a new flat and roommate, along with a new job working at the university.

"My brothers are coming for a visit, next week," she said one day, as they were walking down Graben. They weaved through the crowd closely, so as to not become separated. They were approaching the Plague Column, and Etienne eyed it, passively. "You don't need to meet them," she added. She felt funny about adding it for a moment, but shrugged.

"I appreciate both the warning and the clemency," said Dr. Lecter. He gave her a wink when she looked at him, and she smiled and looked away. "Though, as I recall, your brothers were not altogether kind to you. Does my memory serve?"

"Yes," she said, dubiously. "Why? Are you going to ruin their lives for fun, too?"

"Would that offend your delicate sensibilities, mademoiselle?"

"Don't get me wrong, John," she said, suddenly locking elbows with him. He found he didn't mind. The gesture felt guiless and almost sisterly. "I can appreciate cruelty, as you know. But if I'm honest, you take things a bit far."

"Fair enough," he said, giving her hand a pat. "If you ask me to, I'll leave their lives in tact."

"I'm flattered, strangely. But yes, consider this _the word_."

"Fine. Etienne, I wonder if you would be willing to do me one last favor."

"Hmm. Your favors cost a lot."

"What did the last one cost you?"

Etienne hesitated. "My sense of right and wrong. Rather costly. And I don't fancy being your pawn."

"Oh, Etienne. You're more than a pawn. You're a dear, favored pawn."

"At least he's honest," she sighed. "What's the damn favor?"

"Only a meeting with Frau Strobl."

"Alone?"

"Very."

"Oh, God. You're not going to…you're not going to _comfort her_, are you?"

Dr. Lecter laughed heartily, and Etienne raised her eyebrows. "No, my dear. I only want an audience."

"And what on Earth makes you think that I, of all people, could grant you one? She despises me, you know."

"Yes. One's captive often does. That's precisely why you can grant me what I want. You own her, Etienne. You own them both."

"Yes, and I'm not entirely comfortable with it."

They stopped in front of the Plague Column, and a few birds nearby took flight. Etienne watched after them, as though they were a bad omen.

"It's a waste of time to be uncomfortable with what is. You own them, and that's that. It's also a waste to not use them."

"I'm not your disciple," Etienne said, crossing her arms and pursing her lips for a moment. She looked him up and down and then smiled. "Why don't you just skip the philosophical persuasion and tell me what I get out of doing you this favor."

"Very good, Etienne. I knew you had promise. What would you like?" he asked, his palms open.

"An I.O.U."

"Hmm. Could you be persuaded to be more specific?"

"It's not a matter of persuasion. But if I do you a favor, I want to know you're ready to do me one, if the time comes that I need one."

Dr. Lecter smiled. "Done."

* * *

One morning, Dr. Lecter was on his way home from the market. When he only had a few items he sometimes walked, if the weather was agreeable. Today, his load is not light and the drizzle which had gone on all night was building to a storm.

The parcels in one hand and his umbrella in the other, he made his way to his car. A little piece of his heart thumped in disappointment that it had not been possible to take his own vehicle to Norway. As he loaded the groceries into the trunk and settled into the driver's seat, he sat in silence for a bit. The rain was coming down harder and the windows began to fog. He glanced at the passenger's seat. Not a single thread of her hair was left behind here, because she had never been here. He started the car and inclined his head, listening to a very crisp recording of Schubert's _Gretchen am Spinnrade_.

He could almost hear the spinning of the loom in the quick, nervous chirping of the piano, an anxious Gretchen thinking of her lover. He could not be the Faust to Starling's Gretchen, because she was no Gretchen. If anything, it was Gretchen now, to whom he related.

_Yes_, he agreed with the longing soprano, _no amount of loom-spinning ever alleviates this longing_. So what was one to do with such exquisite pain? There was only one thing to do; embrace it. To shy away from an adversary that will inevitably win is to fundamentally destroy oneself. If it is to be death, welcome it without prejudice or reserve. If it is to be a kind of death, then embrace it. To do so is to embrace life, as the two are irrevocably espoused.

Dr. Lecter looked up. There was a woman outside of his car moving her arms. He turned on his windshield wipers and leaned over his steering wheel. It was Valarie Martin. She wore a big overcoat and a scarf pulled up over her head. She was squinting and gave another wave when they made eye contact. Dr. Lecter opened his door.

"Frau Martin," he said, and she gave her head a little bow.

"Good morning," she said, taking a step closer. Dr. Lecter quickly drew out his umbrella and went to her. She ducked her head underneath, and each took a very quick moment to process their sudden proximity beneath it.

"Good morning," Dr. Lecter said, giving her a smile. "You put me in the favorable position of white knight. What can I do for you?"

"Well, lucky I saw you, I'd hate to ask a stranger. My car won't start. Could you give me a jump?"

"Do you know why it may have died?"

"It's been on its way out for awhile, now."

"Ah. Then I can do better than a jump. Come, I'll call a tow and give you a ride. The weather will only can sort this out tomorrow."

She hesitated. "Well…I can't go home right now."

Dr. Lecter cocked his head, nodded once and smiled. "I see. Then you can come home with me and wait it out, there. Would that be acceptable?"

"Are you sure?" she asked, looking around for a moment. "I truly hate imposing."

"Certainly. Come along," he said, leading her to the passenger's seat.

Valarie Martin eyed the man in the driver's seat once they were on the road, and wrung her hands. She pulled her wet hair over her shoulder, so as not to dampen the seat back any further.

She wasn't sure why she'd agreed to get into this man's car. She'd gotten into many stranger's cars; it wasn't the act, in and of itself. It was specifically because of her unique experiences that Frau Martin had developed a keen sense for predators. She had not a single doubt in her mind since having met Herr Doctor that he was an apex predator. Yet, she had not once felt threatened by him. She was unsure of how to reconcile those two things.

Yet, here she was. Alone with him in his car, driving to his big, dark house. She'd been in big houses before, too. Valarie Martin had been to many places and known many people. She had not been struck by its size or his explicitly elegant taste. She'd seen those things before, and had ceased to find them impressive or interesting. What had been interesting had only ever been the Doctor, himself. It had been a very long time since she'd truly wanted to fuck someone, like this. She nearly scoffed to herself. Why was she in this man's car? There was her damn answer. The body's animal appetite rules. Faster than the mind could dance across the polished floor of analysis, faster than the ego could shit into the porcelain seat of justification. Here she was. The real question was, _Did he know?_

"Aside from your recent dilemma, how have you been, Frau Martin?" Dr. Lecter asked.

Martin glanced at his hands on the steering wheel. She had believed hands were a telling feature since early in childhood. Since the day she'd compared her mother's hands to the hands of another woman's. They'd been at the market, a market not unlike the one they'd just come from. Martin had been about eight, and going through a phase of being attached to her mother's hand. But at the market, there was another woman there, a woman Martin didn't know. Her mother seemed to know her though, and she stood and talked to her for what seemed like hours, to a little girl. But it had probably been no more than ten minutes. What Martin had noticed, with her girlhood ability to ignore the irrelevant conversations of adults up in their above-table towers, was that her mother had hid her hands. Not from her, but from the other woman. The other woman's hands, Martin noticed, were utterly pristine and so very delicate. They were like little white lilies. Not at all like her mother's hands, which were long and hard. They were hands that had fought and worked and stroked a fevered head, those hands. And she had hid them. She had held tight to her mother's hand all the way home.

The hands were not quite as telling as the eyes, of course. But a feature not to be dismissed. These hands, the Doctor's hands…the firmness of their grip so delicate, so…surgical; they were beautiful. Beautiful in a way a man's hands were often not. They matched the rest of him, to be certain. He had very fine features, overall, which matched his mannerisms and voice. Everything about him was so perfectly congruent, so meticulously consistent that it was unsettling. No one was so perfectly consistent-they were crooked, asymmetrical, full of inner strife and mental and emotional conflict. Herr Doctor was not. That wasn't right.

His hands reflected that imperfect perfection—all but a small scar he'd done his best to hide. Martin looked at that tiny blemish and wanted to kiss it.

"It would give me pleasure if you called me Valarie."

"It would be my pleasure to call you so, Valarie. And please call me John."

"I've been well. You keep in touch with Etienne…does she ever talk about me?" Valarie turned to look out of the fogged window. The calm thumping of windshield wipers always put her at ease; like the heartbeat of someone asleep, someone having pleasant dreams, even.

"No. She's very discreet, your cousin."

"Is that a quality you admire?" Valarie wondered.

"Quite a bit. And you?"

Valarie glanced at him. "Of course."

His hands were so perfectly still. Never a tick, never an unnecessary movement. There was something so very odd about this man, and it was something she couldn't quite put her finger on. He was alien, the epitome of Other, to the extent that watching him do things that anyone did; driving a car, getting groceries, wearing a damn tie; was a phenomenal tableau.

It reminded her of dogs dressed up in tutus, dancing on their hind legs, but it was the inverse of that. More like Zeus blasting down from Olympus and funneling his immensity, his might, all down into the body of a sun-kissed fisherman. Zeus, Valarie reflected, was notorious for clothing himself in the flesh of a man in order to feast on the flesh of a woman.

She glanced at him, again. In his Otherness, she wondered if he was even a sexual being. On the whole, he seemed almost asexual, so apparent was his disinterest in the interest of others. But there had been moments. Moments when she saw something in his eyes that made her wonder…

"Etienne is discreet," Valarie murmured, and Dr. Lecter glanced at her. She was looking out the window, sitting a bit low in her seat. Her knees leaned into one another and she made a smiley face in the window's condensation. She sighed. "On occasion, a tad too discreet. If you have a bout of nosiness, that is," she went on. Her volume and tone made it more clear that she was speaking to him, and not herself.

"What do you want to know, Valarie?" he asked her. When she looked at him, he smiled. Valarie swallowed.

"I…wondered how close the two of you are. How…intimate."

"That's a very inappropriate question, Valarie."

Something about his cross tone and the illicit smile she saw in his eyes suddenly made Valarie inconveniently dewy.

"I know," she said softly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Her hand drifted to her mouth, and she ran her pinky across her lower lip once, twice, back and forth. It was a nervous habit.

The silence which followed led her from feeling a chest full of butterflies to a stomach full of toads. The rain seemed louder by the time they reached his house. She wasn't sure if it was the uneasy silence or the worsening of the weather. But when he pulled into the garage, he quickly came around to open the door for her, and his eyes and hand were soft and warm.

Inside it was very dark and Martin stood still for a moment, listening to the sound of the Doctor's footfalls. He had only gone a short distance before a light came on, and she could see again. She looked down and realized she was clutching her scarf to her chest. When she looked back up, he was looking at her, and she let her hands fall.

"Please," he said, ushering with an outstretched arm," I'll light a fire. Take my chair. It's wool, so it retains a bit of warmth."

Martin went through the open French doors into the drawing room and felt the skin on the back of her neck pucker when she heard him follow her. While she watched him kneel to start the fire, Martin settled into his chair and hugged her coat close; it was not warm in the house.

"Have you stopped having parties, or am I just not invited?" Martin asked, with a smirk. He glanced at her from where he knelt. There was a tray with newspapers folded carefully nearby, and he was shoving some of them beneath the logs.

"Contrary to what some may assume, I don't hold many parties. I only hold the best ones."

Martin chuckled, and Dr. Lecter lit the crumpled newspaper with a long butane lighter. They watched it curl and darken, and stayed relatively quiet until the logs began to catch.

"Please, make yourself at home," he said at length, and stood." I'll call a tow. The wet bar is behind you, if you're inclined to make yourself a drink."

"It's a little early."

"I agree, but I didn't want to be rude. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll be back, shortly."

While he was gone, Martin watched the fire and eventually slid her scarf away from her neck, letting it pile into her lap. She looked down at her hands, at her knees. It had been a long time since she' d felt so small. She heard a noise after a few minutes, coming from a room across from the foyer. Martin leaned forward to watch for his return. She heard him coming before she saw him and leaned back again, briskly folding her hands in her lap. He'd removed his overcoat and suit jacket, but still wore a vest and tie. His watch caught the light as he set down a cup and saucer next to her elbow. She nodded and smiled up at him.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome. Were you going to say something else?" He took a seat across from her and crossed his legs.

"I…no. Why?"

"It sounded like you were going to."

"Oh."

Martin looked down at her hands again, and began pinching off her glove. She did so slowly and methodically, suddenly feeling nervous. How easily could she play with people? It wasn't just men, she could seduce a woman just as easily. She didn't want to seduce this man. She wanted him to seduce her. But she sensed he knew that, and she felt sheepish.

"Valarie?"

"Yes?" she looked up at him, with one gloved hand and one bare.

"Do you feel strangely about calling me John?"

Martin smiled and tilted her head. "I might."

"Hmm. Perhaps we can change that, today," he said, leaning forward on his elbows. His smile made her knees weak.

"Perhaps," she said.

When he suddenly stood, Martin tensed. But then he paused a moment, looking at her, before turning on his heels and walking to the other end of the room.

"Do you like Brahms, Valarie?"

"Very much."

"I remember your fondness of Charpentier, it was so fortunate that I happened to own one. So fortune seems to follow us, Valarie. I have a sufficient collection of Brahms."

He was busy with his back to her for a moment, before music came on. He didn't immediately turn around, but inclined his head, one hand bent at the elbow, the other at his side.

"Considering both Charpentier and Brahms were of the Romantic period, I thought it might appeal to you. Would it be a safe assumption, Valarie, that you enjoy Romanticism?"

He finally turned around. His eyes were focused on nothing but her, and she sighed.

"Safe…yes. John?"

"Yes?"

"Do you enjoy Romanticism?"

"Yes," he said, his voice suddenly lighter, oddly chipper, and he came forward. Instead of reclaiming his seat, he approached her. She remained very still, watching him kneel in front of her.

"Romanticism is not defined, as some might assume, by what is traditionally termed _romantic_," he said. In his position, he was nearly eye level with her. He nodded to her hands, and she offered her gloved one. He took it gingerly in his hand, as though it was a priceless figurine. He held it with one hand, and carefully covered it with the other. He continued:

"But it can occasionally be its subject. Romanticism, to me, more closely symbolizes upheaval. We abandon old paradigms in search of more, in search of ourselves. And in the marriage of reason and feeling, we find a lens through which to see the world and reconcile its paradox."

He removed her glove carefully and slowly. He bent his head and gave her a chaste kiss on her knuckles. Then, he looked up with only his eyes, and turned her hand to display her ivory wrist. He kept his eyes on her as he kissed her there, just above her thumb.

Valarie came forward and he caught her as though he knew she would, and she kissed his mouth with her arms around his neck. They stood together, still kissing, and it was she who broke it, her breath still heavy. She took her clothes off slowly, and kept her eyes on him. He was quiet and expressionless. When she was nude, she stood watching him. For a moment, she worried he would change his mind, throw her out and call her something she'd been called before. But in time, he came forward and ran both hands through her hair.

When he spoke, it was a whisper, and his gaze was decidedly on her forehead. "In the firelight, your hair is like cinnamon."

And when he kissed her again, she reflected that she had not been kissed like that in a very, very long time.

The second time Dr. Lecter made love to Valarie Martin, the third movement of Brahm's Third Symphony was playing. They were upstairs by then, but it drifted through the halls and reverberated off of the walls and high ceilings. One of the things he enjoyed about the house was its acoustics. You could hear music playing from any room in the house.

With Valarie turned around, her hair the color of hickory gliding over her back with their movements, he thought about Brahms. The Wagnerian faction was as vicious as the Brahmians those days, and even well-intentioned music lovers found his elusive, complex work to be too dry and demanding, too deliberate and free of spontaneity. Dr. Lecter liked what critics said of Brahms; anything too complex to be grasped by common dolts, too delicate to be cherished by careless dullards was something to be praised.

Valarie moaned beneath him and he sucked his thumb into his mouth. A few moments later, Valarie turned to look at him from over her shoulder and said, "Oh!" before looking away again with a smile. When he came forward and she felt his fingers slide into her mouth, she moaned again, and his movements became harder, deeper, but not faster.

Dr. Lecter considered Bach's Chaconne, composed after returning from a trip and finding his wife and mother of his children had died. While historians would've liked to speculate that the Romantic era piece had been written as an emotional fountainhead, it was more likely that such notions would have been lost on Bach. Having been a court composer trained as a Lutheran organist, composing music or creating art had little to do with personal catharsis and expression, but offered as a religious and civic duty. But, one can take refuge in Brahm's opinion on the Chaconne.

Dr. Lecter could recite the particular quote by heart, as he could many, and he did so while occupying all of Valarie Martin's orifices:

_If I imagined that I could have created, even conceived the piece, I am quite certain that the excess of excitement and earth-shattering experience would have driven me out of my mind. _

With that, Dr. Lecter released Martin's mouth and anus and drove her upwards so that she was balanced on her knees. She grabbed hold of his thigh to keep herself steady, arched her back exquisitely, and made just the right amount of noise while Dr. Lecter drove into her and buried his face in her hair.

It was the following week that Dr. Lecter's meeting with Frau Strobl finally took place, in the form of a lunch date. Frau Strobl herself answered the door, when he arrived. He offered her wine and she offered her hand, and Dr. Lecter took note that any staff had certainly been dismissed.

"How is the little tripe?" she asked after formal pleasantries. Her tone had not lost its formality, nor the mock cheer which went with it.

"Who, Madame?"

They were in the drawing room now, and Frau Strobl took the Chardonnay to the wet bar. "I love Chardonnay, by the way. Excellent choice, as usual," she said over her shoulder.

"I thought you would."

"Why?" she asked, taking out a cork screw.

"Allow me," said Dr. Lecter coming from behind her. She let him take it and looked him over. His attire was relatively casual, and he wore glasses. His collar was crisp and as dark as his slick hair. The fact that she was still attracted to him didn't bother her. Her animosity towards him had nothing much to do with him; she only felt hostile towards him because he continued to associate with the harlot and her…_actual harlot_ cousin. She knew that he knew, and it troubled her. Yet, he'd said nothing of it. She knew he hadn't, because if he had, the whispers would have made the rounds ten times by now.

"I have my ways," he answered, giving her a wink. The cork released, and she watched him pour the glasses. Had the whole nasty business never happened, she would have been pleased to be informed he wanted a private audience with her. Hearing it from the harlot poisoned it.

"You never answered my question," she remarked, taking the glass from him. They sat down across from one another. The furnishings were very light, but the window's curtains were drawn. The Strobl's home was all beiges, marbles and glass. Very fragile, very easily stained.

"You never answered mine," answered Dr. Lecter. He sat the wine down beside him without sniffing or touching it.

Frau Strobl had to think a moment. "Ah," she nodded, in recognition. "'Who, Madame'," she quoted him, lowering her voice an octive. "Etienne, of course."

"She's very well. I'll inform her of your concern for her well-being."

She sighed, and took a sip of the wine. "I hope you like cod."

"That will be fine. Thank you again, for having me, Frau Strobl."

"You're welcome," she said, draping an arm along the loveseat's back. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I haven't had the pleasure of your company in a while, and I wanted to see how you are. I know things have been less than ideal, and I want you to know, Frau Strobl," he looked away for a moment, his eyebrows drawn together,"That I think you're utterly blameless in all of this."

Her eyebrows raised. "Do you? Well…of course you do. I am!"

"Yes," he said, his expression grave. "You are. And I thought, considering the circumstances, you might not have the opportunity to speak frankly with anyone about the…injustices you've endured. I want you to know, nothing would bring me to speak of any of it. If you don't wish to confide in me, I would understand perfectly, and if you tell me to speak no more, I will oblige without question. However, it's weighed on my mind, as of late. Your predicament. And I could no longer separate myself from it," he chuckled softly to himself. "Perhaps I sniff out tragedy's victims like a bloodhound. Perhaps that's my sin. But I had to offer my services in any way you see fit."

"I see," Frau Strobl spoke slowly. She set down her wine glass after a moment, and clasped her hands, her eyes focused on the floor between them. Her mouth, a thin line, twitched. "Well…I will admit to having felt rather…estranged, these days."

"There's nothing wrong with saying lonely, Madame," Dr. Lecter said, quietly. When she looked up, his head was to the side. He still wore a grave expression, but his eyes had softened. "The irony about loneliness is that it's the one thing which unites us all."

She was quiet for a moment, her hand finding the necklace across her throat. She moved the pendant back and forth along the thin chain, and then looked at him, again. "I suppose you're right. I'll admit, I've wondered…do you ever feel lonely? In that big house, by yourself?"

Dr. Lecter briefly bowed his head and then offered his palms. "Loneliness occupies every home, at one time or another. Mine is no different."

"You know…after that scoundrel seduced and humiliated me, I wondered if I could ever feel close to a human being again. Our alliance is fledgling, but it gives me hope. But the time has come to ask, Herr Doctor. Why do you continue to associate with my blackmailer?"

Dr. Lecter sighed, and looked away, thoughtfully. "Truth be told, Madame, I've been attempting to convince her to rectify all this. Of course, nothing can ever make it right, what she did. But she could return the money, apologize and leave town. Alas, it is a work in progress. I believe everyone deserves a second chance. Perhaps she will choose to bypass the opportunity for betterment. If so, I will have done all I can."

"Well, you're a better man than my husband."

"You flatter me, Madame."

"Please," she said, smiling. Her pendant still pinched between thumb and forefinger, she pulled it back and forth, _zip, zip, zip_. "Call me Léonie."

Translations:

_La douleur exquise_: the exquisite pain of wanting someone that you know you can never have, and knowing that you will still try to be with them.


End file.
